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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162692">Germinal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoflosgar/pseuds/ladyoflosgar'>ladyoflosgar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>ASOIAF Rare Pair Week 2020, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Defrosting Ice Couple, Domeric Bolton Lives, Domeric Killed Ramsay instead, F/M, Grey Wind Lives, Happy Ending, See each chapter for warnings, Sexual Content, post-Wot5K, pre and post Long Night, wholesome content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:28:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoflosgar/pseuds/ladyoflosgar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow on your wedding day means a cold marriage. (An Ice Queen and an Ice King are forced to marry each other and end up defrosting.)</p><p>Germinal: The first month of spring in the French Revolutionary calendar, starting 20 or 21 March. From "germination", by which growth comes from seeds.</p><p>Inspired by the 2020 ASOIAF Rarepair Week, themed "A Dream of Spring". </p><p>Tags have been updated because in the process of editing this piece has been toned down.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Domeric Bolton/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>ASOIAF Rarepair Week</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Thaw (False Spring)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>See endnotes for warnings. This will not be a fluffy fic or a lovey dovey one. But, like every love story, it will be chock full of "if you had just stopped and talked to each other much of that conflict could have been avoided/resolved easily".</p><p>Edit: OK it's only day 4 and I couldn't resist writing lovey dovey moments. The planner is willing but the pantser is weak!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Snow on your wedding day means a cold marriage.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“My lord Hand. Lady Lannister. Winterfell is yours.” Domeric kneels, and Tywin Lannister gives him a disinterested nod. Lady Catelyn purses her lips, mutters a curt “ser”, and looks at the castle rather than at him when he kisses her hand. <em>She left the wife of one Hand, and she returns the wife of another, but it’s not her castle anymore. </em>She draws her hand away from him as soon as courtesy allows and moves on to speak with Ser Rodrik to his right.</p><p>“Father.”</p><p>“Domeric. This is my wife, Lady Walda.”</p><p>“My lady stepmother. It is a pleasure.” Walda Frey is the fattest person not named ‘Manderly’ he’s ever seen. He kisses her on the cheek.</p><p>“We have much to speak on, my son.” His lord father claps him on the back and squeezes him on the shoulder.</p><p>“Of course, father.” <em>The Warden of the North, the architect of peace. </em>If it would be peace, it will be a cold one, for how long a time would it take to melt the away the memories of what was done?<em> Perhaps forever. </em>His father’s eyes are almost smiling as they part, and when they glint like ice in the sun, Domeric knows. <em>The North Remembers.</em></p><p>Then he sees his betrothed. Sansa Stark is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.</p><p>“Lady Stark. Welcome home. The tales of how your beauty has grown do not do you justice.” His throat runs dry, and by the word ‘justice’, he is croaking. He was going to say, <em>I hope we might spend many happy years together, </em>but the icy sheen over her perfect features bid him stop. Blue is a colder color than grey. He kneels and takes her hand, and when the kiss is done, she is smiling at him, sweet and cold, like berries in chilled cream. <em>Perhaps Beth was right after all. </em>Perhaps he has cause to hope.</p><p>“Lady Sansa will love you, I know it!” little Beth had exclaimed, when she’d heard the news, when they’d been seeding primrose in the lichyard. He was fresh off the march through the Wolfswood, tired and aching, but it felt good to plant the seeds. “You’re tall and handsome and a knight! And you love music, and she loves to sing. And you saved us all from the Ironborn. You captured Theon Greyjoy and his <em>evil</em> sister too. You’re a hero!” He hadn’t had the heart to tell her that it wouldn’t be so simple.</p><p>Like every other great lord in the North, his father had sent a bird to Ned Stark asking for his eldest daughter’s hand, on behalf of his heir. When the refusal came in reply, Domeric had been almost relieved. <em>She’s a pretty girl, who likes pretty things, and smiles pretty smiles. </em>The Dreadfort would have ruined her. Now as he lets go of her hand, as her blue eyes look down on him – <em>so cold, so cold – </em>as her wolf narrows its eyes –<em> cold and blue, just like hers, just like the dead boys’–  </em>and bares its teeth.</p><p>“Grey Wind,” she whispers, stern and strong. <em>Perhaps she would have withstood the Dreadfort better than me.</em> “No.”</p><p>He nods, rises, and moves to greet the other girl, the little one, but her wolf growls, and she turns up her nose at him, and then both Stark sisters follow their mother off to the crypts.</p><p>***</p><p>“This is it? These are all of the Stormlanders who have bent the knee? This is hardly half.” Lord Tywin sneers at the parchment. “My offer was quite generous. The bills of attainder lifted, their lands and titles restored. I expected better.”</p><p>“Lord Hand,” the First Ranger counters. “The Night’s Watch was in dire need of men, and those who followed Lord Commander Baratheon are hardy, loyal, and true. I would ask you not begrudge us our new recruits. The Night’s Watch serves all the realm.” Jon Snow is so like both of his sisters. Quiet and courteous, like the elder. <em>Cold. </em>But his look is like the younger, dark of hair and grey of eye, and when Jon Snow frowns, it’s Arya Stark that Domeric sees. <em>But his wolf is the most unnerving of them all. </em></p><p>“Very well, then,” Lord Tywin says. “The girl. His daughter. You have brought her here?”</p><p>“Aye, my lord. Ser Domeric has installed her in the guest house.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>“And the Florents?”</p><p>“Lady Selyse and Lady Melisandre are on a ship from Eastwatch bound for the Red Temple. Ser Axell has accepted your gift of Dragonstone.”</p><p>Lord Tywin nods. The meeting is over, and he goes. Domeric sees the wolf at the door, too, its red eyes inscrutable. <em>I almost wish it would growl at me. </em>Jon Snow moves out the door too, not inscrutable, <em>sullen. </em>Domeric cannot begrudge his hate. <em>I will bed his sister tonight, and I cannot blame him. </em>The rest of the lords file out of the hall, and after Grandfather squeezes his arm in encouragement, it is only Boltons left.</p><p>“Domeric.”</p><p>“Father.”</p><p>“I had feared that with your change in habits that I had wasted this match on you.” He meant the abrupt cessation of whoring, which he does not understand. <em>All knights are called to godly continence, and the penance of self-denial is the root of virtue.</em> “But I am glad that you have given me reason to believe that is not the case.”</p><p>“My betrothed is very beautiful, Father. I am very grateful.” To his shame – <em>all of it, it’s to my shame -</em> he could not tame his roving eyes.</p><p>“Good. The Tullys are a fertile stock, and Bolton seed is strong.” A pause. “Walda is pregnant. I trust we shall have two new Boltons within the year.”</p><p>He readies himself in his chambers without any attendants. <em>A crisp pink doublet and fine black breeches.</em> It wouldn’t do for them to see, not here, not in the heart of the North, him praying on his wedding day. <em>O Warrior, bless the strength of my arm, that I may defend her always. O Smith, bless the works of my hands and the sweat of my brow, that I might build up our house and provide for her all my days. O Father, make me like unto yourself, that I may rule my wife and children with justice in your name.</em></p><p>He waits in front of the heart tree as the snow comes down, and when he sees his bride on Jon Snow’s arm, he <em>stares</em>. Clad in a gown of ivory samite chased with silver thread, direwolves rampant on her breasts, she is so beautiful, all winter cold. There’s a howling pack at the feet of her skirts that cannot hide her shape. The maiden’s cloak around her shoulders bears a wild white pelt, and the white wool falling down her back a snarling direwolf of pearls. White lace like snowflakes dusts the deep cut of her neckline and piles up the back of her high ruff collar, and a net of moonstones and small blue flowers weaves through the tumbling red of her shining tresses. All he wants to do is press his thumbs into her hipbones and knead his fingers in.</p><p>But he has to wait.</p><p>His father says the words. They kneel, and the prayers are done, and Jon Snow removes the direwolf cloak, and he wraps her all in pink. <em>Finally</em> he gets to kiss her. He places a finger under her chin and leans forward. Her face is frozen in a courtly smile, and her lips do not move.<em> Have I married the Corpse Queen?</em> When he pulls the way and all the lords are clapping, he knows he has to smile too. They want to see a show. He sweeps her off her feet and carries her inside, the wolf named Grey Wind close on his heels.</p><p><em>Snow on your wedding day means a cold marriage. </em>It’s an old Northern proverb, and he hopes right now it’s wrong. <em>If it’s right, it’s just another penance.</em></p><p>It’s not long before the feast grows raucous. He shares his wine with Sansa and feeds her with his knife. When he places a hand on her thigh the freeze is so short, he thinks he only imagined it. She keeps looking around the room, and her smile keeps growing brighter, and it gives him cause to hope. He tries to talk to her, and when she talks back, she is pleasant, and that’s all he can say. There is depth there, in her eyes, but she keeps it from him, underneath the ice.</p><p>“They say you killed your brother, ser.” It’s the first conversation she’s started with him and not the other way around. <em>Of course it would be this.</em></p><p>“In my defense, he tried to kill me first.” He takes their shared cup and drinks. If he closes his eyes, he’s there again, down by the mill water. <em>Beware hellebore and pink oleander, </em>the old woman had said, after he’d helped her find her wares, scattered in the dirt. <em>See those flowers there. </em>She’d showed him, with her lantern. <em>Brother, share my wine, </em>Ramsay had said. <em>Share my bread. Share my salt. Share with me. </em>He’d torn the bread, sprinkled the salt, and dipped it in the wine, and when it hit his mouth, he saw the flowers. There on the table, and hanging from the ceiling. <em>The Crone. She saved me. </em>He spit it out. He went down on the floor. There was a knife at his leg. He put a knife in a gut. He came back up. Ramsay didn’t.</p><p>
  <em>Father forgive me, for I have killed your son. From this day forward, you shall obey me in all things. No man is as accursed as the kinslayer. Gods forgive me. Please, forgive me. Only the Seven forgive, lad.</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t want his wine anymore.</p><p>Rickard Karstark is roaring drunk, Cley Cerwyn and Daryn Hornwood not far behind him. Though they’re not married yet, Lord Daryn can’t stop squeezing his Lady Alys, and Torrhen Karstark keeps staring daggers. Cley Cerwyn slurs his words over Beth – Ryswell, not Cassel, and Uncle Roger frowns. Howland Reed comes up to give his regards and all Domeric can say is “I’m sorry, my lord.” He’s relieved when the crannogman says it’s not his fault, and more relieved when he goes away. Someone shouts for a toast, a speech, and after they say the words for King Joffrey and Queen Margaery his father pays homage to the dead. Eddard Karstark, who fell at the Whispering Wood. Then all of those who died at the Green Fork. Halys Hornwood. Harrion Karstark. Medger Cerwyn. The Greatjon. And then the Young Wolf.</p><p>It’s a good thing there are no Umbers or Mormonts here, for they would make a scene. Instead, the Northmen stomp their feet, and the Valemen clap, and the Rivermen cheer. Politely. For <em>peace. </em>Then Helman Talhart calls for another toast, and cups rise high and splash out wine, for Rodrik Ryswell and his fine stallions, who liberated Torrhen’s Square. Robett Glover does likewise, and they all toast the groom, the savior of Deepwood Motte. Then there are forks banging on metal goblets, and hoots, and crows.</p><p>“Kiss her, Bolton!” <em>They want to see a show. </em>When he’s done he realizes she’s thawing. <em>She tastes like wine, she’s warm. </em>Then it’s time for the dancing, and he knows he’s warming too.</p><p>The Blackfish comes to take her away, when the first song is through. With the stony look Ser Brynden gave him there is no doubt the trout will fare swimmingly at the Wall. He’s disappointed, but Aunt Barbrey comes to dance with him, and soon he’s smiling again. He wants to dance with his wife again, but now she’s with Jon Snow, and the wolf is there. All three. He wants to dance with his wife again, but Ser Brynden and Jon Snow keep passing her between themselves. So he dances with his Ryswell cousins, and Ysilla, and Beth Cassel, who laughs, and when Lady Sybelle comes to dance with him her eyes crinkle and she squeezes his hands and says <em>thank you, I cannot thank you enough, </em>and gives him a kiss on the brow. Then he dances with Lady Alys – she’s drunk too – and when she asks if it’s true that all men of Ryswell blood are hung like horses, he has to bite his tongue. <em>Daryn, come take your woman away.</em></p><p>Out of the corner of his eye he can see his Ryswell cousins whispering to Jon and Mychel. The young Valemen and the Riverlords are leering, and Lord Baelish too. They’re eager for the bedding. He’s heartened when there’s a red-haired woman in his arms again, but she’s not the right one.</p><p>“Lady Catelyn. Goodmother.”</p><p>She has no time for pleasantries, and her eyes are <em>cold.</em> “Ser. I have heard much about you. I have reason to hope the good prevails over the bad.” She bites her lip, and she looks like the other daughter. “Prove me right. My daughter, she has suffered much.” She looks to her husband, bored at the high table. “They <em>hurt</em> her. She has scars. Do not let there be a bedding. Do not shame her further.”</p><p>“Of course not, my lady. She is my wife. I would never let harm come to her.” Sansa is still dancing with the Blackfish.</p><p>“Good.” Lady Catelyn sees him looking. “My daughter will do her duty.” There is no more talking, and when the song changes, the Blackfish approaches, and they switch partners.</p><p>“My lady,” he whispers. “Shall we retire?” Her gaze scans around the hall before settling back on him, and she gives a tight nod. He leads her to the edge of the hall, nearest the door, and he sweeps her into his arms again. “Hold tight,” he says. “We’ll be going fast.”</p><p>Behind him there are jeers. “Bolton, you <em>can’t!” “</em>Dom, you <em>cad!” </em>“Don’t deny us!” “It’s tradition!” He turns and looks, and Tywin Lannister is there, on their side of the door, and the wolf. Grey Wind. He cannot tell which beast is more fearsome.</p><p>“You will not be followed.” He nods out his thanks.</p><p>When they get to the bridal chamber he puts her down, and then he bars the door. There’s a roaring fire, and it’s so warm. The pink doublet goes away, and the pink cloak too, prettily folded on the chair. Sansa is looking down. There’s a bottle of sweet Arbor gold for him, and a tray of lemon cakes for her, because Beth said she liked them. He cups her cheek and offers, and smiles when she accepts, and feeds her from his hand.</p><p>The moonstone net has got to go, and the blue flowers too. <em>Too beautiful to ruin, just like her.</em> He picks them out of her hair, one by one, and lays them on the dressing table. He takes a sip of the sweet wine and kisses her once more. <em>Warm. </em></p><p>“Sansa,” he says, working his hands through her hair, nuzzling her face, stroking her arms. “Please do not be afraid of me, Sansa. Know that I will never seek to hurt you.” She notices him touching the different parts of her gown, searching for the fastenings.</p><p>“Cut it off the back. It’s meant to come off that way.” He draws his knife and does it. He takes the shift as well<em>. </em>The gown is a lovely thing. <em>Perhaps it can be worn again</em>. He leaves it on the chair, and with it, his own garments. <em>Yes, it’s warm enough.</em></p><p>The scars are there, and he touches them. <em>How strong it is. Human skin. </em>He kisses them because they’re hers. He makes a note to ask his father for a pot of special cream. She’s a Bolton. She can have it, if she wants. <em>I do not love her yet but I can. </em>Sansa Stark will be so easy to love. There are pink rose petals on the sheets and on the furs, because that’s what a bride deserves. He had them sent from Highgarden. He settles her in his lap and kisses her some more.</p><p>“Sweet Sansa, you were made for a man’s touch.” <em>She smells so good, she feels so soft. </em>He’s hard as nails when she kisses his neck, when he feels her against his thigh. <em>Hot</em>. Winter is gone from her eyes, and her cheeks are blooming pink like spring primroses, and beneath, the dewy damp. He smiles at her. <em>So pretty. </em>It’s killing him that he has to go slow. <em>Tonight is for her, but tomorrow is for me. </em></p><p>Perhaps he’s not cursed after all. Perhaps the proverbs are wrong. He sees a chance and takes it, and runs a knuckle on her cheek.</p><p>“I know that we do not know each other yet. But. Gods willing we will have many long years together. I hope we can be happy.” He raises her face so she’s looking at him and sighs. “My mother and my father – they did not have a loving marriage. But your parents – their love was famous. It is something I have always wanted. A loving marriage.” He says the words against her face. “I hope we can love each other. My lady. Sansa.”</p><p>Then he kisses her again. He pulls away, confused, because the cold has returned, and her eyes are icy rage. She snarls at him, and he sees the wolf in her face. <em>Grey Wind</em>.</p><p>“No,” she snaps, her nose pointing in the air, flinching away from him, off of him. “No. I have said the words. I will obey you and lay with you and bear your children. I will do my duty and nothing more. But if you think for a moment that I will <em>love you</em>, you are wrong. If you think that I will <em>want</em> you, <em>you are</em> <em>wrong</em>. I am your wife, but this was forced on me.” She’s not looking at him, and he can’t tell whether that’s good or bad. <em>Always, I do wrong. </em>“I could <em>never </em>love you. Not when it’s <em>your </em>fault that Rickon is dead. Not when it’s <em>your</em> fault that nobody can find Bran. Not when it’s your fault that <em>they killed Robb.” </em>If she is crying now, she won’t accept his comfort. He’s ruined it. “My brother did not just <em>fall down the stairs and break his neck.</em> It was <em>your father, </em>and <em>you know it.</em>” He does.</p><p>She leans back against the pillows, covers her eyes, and turns her head away. “I hate you.” Then she spreads her legs. “Rape me and be done with it.”</p><p>For an angry flash he considers it – to pin her down and pump her while he shoves his knuckles in her mouth. <em>I want, I need – </em>but he won’t. <em>I’m better than that. I said I’d never hurt her.</em></p><p>He’s almost at a loss for words. “You will come to my bed a willing wife, or you will not come at all. Smile at me if you ever want a child.”</p><p>He gives her one last chance. She doesn’t take it. “Very well then,” he whispers. Then he remembers – <em>they want to see a show. I must obey my Father in all things.</em> “Look away, my lady.” <em>She’s already looking away.</em></p><p>There, on the table, his knife. The prick is quick and now they have a stain. He takes himself in hand and pictures her with a smile on her face. He wipes off on the sheet and now they have another. <em>Gods forgive me. </em></p><p>He slugs a fist against the headboard and fumbles for a dressing gown. There’s a chair, by the window, and he watches the white pile up.</p><p>
  <em>Snow on your wedding day means a cold marriage.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: A wedding night that ends in an argument, masturbation, and a faked bloody sheet rather than a consummation. Also, "nasty degenerate male thoughts".</p><p>Sansa has every right not to be open to loving Domeric here. I hope her outburst doesn't seem to OOC. She's been spending a lot of time with the more impulsive Cat and Arya. And Cat recently had a forced marriage too. From her perspective, she smiled through wedding feast in her own home where half the kingdom cheered for the Boltons and the Ryswells, who created the conditions for Roose and Tywin to have Robb assasssinated.</p><p>However even given the circumstances, with arranged marriages in a place where the concept of no-fault divorce would be laughed at, I think Domeric has a good approach. Might as well try to love somebody if you'll be stuck with them until the end of days.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dreams (Children)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He still did not feel that Winterfell was his castle.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>See endnotes for warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“The servants tell me you have not bed your wife since the wedding. Why?”</p><p>It’s been a moon since that awful evening, and his answer is ready made. All the guests have left, save for the Lannisters and the Boltons<em>. </em>“My lady was separated from her sister for a very long time. I would not deprive her of the little while she has to cherish with her family. I would please her in any way I can.”</p><p>It is customary for newlyweds to share a bed for at least a moon before separating into their own chambers. Not so with the Lady of Winterfell and her Lord Protector. She has spent every night with her sister for a bedmate, and he has slept alone.</p><p>He’s been alone since Aunt Barbrey left. Since the Ryswells left. Since the Redforts left.</p><p>“I see.” His father looks him up and down, as if he <em>knows</em>. “As long as there is no lack of initiative on your part.”</p><p>“Not at all, Father. I want my lady to be happy.”</p><p>Sansa is on his arm as they bid the Dreadfort party goodbye from the courtyard. She smiles sweetly as rosy-cheeked Walda squeals something about their babies playing together. A fortnight later and it’s time for Lord and Lady Lannister to return to King’s Landing. The other girl is going with them. Arya Stark, and her wretched wolf. Nymeria. <em>Good riddance.</em></p><p>The she-beast has snapped and snarled at him at every moment they’ve crossed paths, and even tried to bite him. In the godswood, in the lichyard. In corridors and in the hall. She reminds him of the other wolf. The first one he’d met. The boy’s wolf. <em>Shaggydog. </em></p><p>“That creature needs a leash,” he’d said to Lady Catelyn. He still did not feel that Winterfell was his castle. He shouldn’t have asked. She only told him no. It’s fortunate that Sansa’s wolf is better. Grey Wind does not snarl, does not growl, does not snap his jaws at him. Instead, he watches. He follows. Sometimes he barks. Sometimes he whines. He can almost think of Grey Wind as his wife’s overlarge, well-behaved dog. But he’s not a dog, he’s a wolf. <em>That thing can kill me. </em>And, he remembers, he’s not even Sansa’s. Grey Wind belonged to Robb.</p><p>“Lady was Sansa’s wolf,” Beth had said to him, as they’d seeded the primrose in the lichyard, by the stone they’d set up for Shaggydog. “Lady was so sweet. Sansa would sing to her, and brush her hair.” Sansa does not sing to Grey Wind. Sansa does not sing at all.</p><p>She says farewell to her mother and sister and she is the only one who does not cry. She is colder than the two of them. Nymeria rubs her snout along Grey Wind’s shoulder and they both nuzzle Sansa’s legs. “My dutiful daughter. How I wish we had more time.” Lately Catelyn kisses Sansa’s brow and then takes Domeric’s arm. He walks her to the wheelhouse, where Lady Shireen is waiting. Arya is already on her horse, behind Lord Tywin, Nymeria at her side. Arya has nothing to say to him.</p><p>“I am with child,” she says to him brusquely. “I thought I was done but here we are. Most like I will not,” and her voice quavers, “be able to be here. For Sansa. When she goes into her confinement.” Lady Catelyn, too, expects a babe within the year. Everyone has made that clear. “I ask this as her mother. Please take care of her.”</p><p>“Anything within my power to give her, she shall have.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>The Lannister caravan creaks away, and Domeric gives Sansa his arm again. There’s a question hanging between them as they travel between the wards to the Great Keep. When he makes to speak to her he realizes how close he’s gotten to her, how little space he’s left between them. He’s almost forgotten. She smiles at him when they’re not alone. And they’re never alone.</p><p> <em>I hate you. </em></p><p>He lets his arm go slack. The question can hang a little while longer. She hangs on a little while longer. Then she lets go.</p><p>When the household gathers in the hall for supper he sits next to her. He sits in Ned Stark’s chair. Robb Stark’s chair. Bran Stark’s chair. No Bolton was ever meant to sit here. When she thinks he isn’t looking he sees it in her face. The deep, unshakeable sadness. The loneliness. A moment later and it’s gone. She’s wearing the mask again. There’s no use saying it. <em>I know that feeling too. </em></p><p>
  <em>I hate you. </em>
</p><p>Maybe he can make her smile. He calls for his harp and begins to sing. Songs that everyone knows, so that he can put it down, so they can dance. “Sansa loves to dance,” Beth had told him. When everyone is clapping, he takes her hand. She doesn’t love to dance with him, but she’s smiling anyway, because they’re not alone.</p><p>He dances with little Beth afterwards, and little Beth’s smile is real. Beth Cassel always has smiles for her knight in shining armor. The little girl’s auburn curls bounce and flounce as he twirls her. He’d danced with Sansa Stark before, a long time ago, and it was like this. Happy. He wishes he’d married that Sansa Stark.</p><p>He returns to his seat when Ser Rodrik wants to dance with his daughter. In his dreams he gets to dance with a daughter. Maybe his daughter would look like Beth, with auburn curls and a smile. <em>Perhaps I’d name her Beth too. </em>He looks at his wife. The torchlight dances in her auburn hair and the wool clings to her waist. Her skirt has give, and if he looks down, he can see where it dips between her supple thighs, how the shadows beckon beneath her collar.</p><p>He opens his mouth to ask a question.</p><p>It’s then he realizes Grey Wind has been under the table the whole time. The wolf’s tail swings once, twice, and brushes his legs. <em>Too close.</em> The creature comes out from under the table and lays his head in Domeric’s lap. <em>This thing will bite my cock off. </em>He can’t tear his eyes away. Grey Wind merely blows hot air out his nose and rolls his ears back.</p><p>“You can pet him,” Sansa says. She takes his hand and runs it along the wolf’s skull, and Grey Wind’s ears twitch. Once is enough. Those eyes are so unnerving. Blue. Grey Wind’s eyes. Sansa’s eyes. The boys’ eyes. Rickon and Bran.</p><p>
  <em>It’s your fault that Rickon is dead. It’s your fault that nobody can find Bran. It’s your fault they killed Robb. </em>
</p><p>It is.</p><p>He doesn’t ask his question.</p><p>When he goes to bed the nightmare’s back. The one that haunted his dreams on the way to Deepwood Motte. The one with the dead children.</p><p>The library at the Dreadfort had the only books in the known world chronicling successful sieges of Winterfell. He brought them all. Six hundred of the elite Bolton garrison. And food.</p><p>Ser Rodrik was the first to arrive. Then Cley Cerwyn. Then Leobald Tallhart, and Grandfather. Domeric was the last. Silver, brown, gold, pink. It should have been easy. Greyjoy should have just surrendered.</p><p>It’s the details he truly remembers. He wouldn’t have been able to give an account of everything that happened, not without the notes he’d logged every night, hunched over his writing desk, the candle flame sinister against the pink tent flaps. He remembers the rain darkening the granite walls; he remembers the crystalline glint when the rain froze overnight. He remembers the scent of horseshit and the sound of men digging latrines. He remembers the sun in Beth Cassel’s hair when Theon Greyjoy pressed the rope into her neck. But most of all, he remembers Rickon Stark’s eyes.</p><p>Cold. Dead. <em>Blue. </em></p><p>There were parleys. Once a week there were parleys. “We can take this castle, <em>Greyjoy</em>.” But could they save the boys?</p><p>The Rodriks were the only ones who truly knew what they were doing. Grandfather didn’t bother talking. <em>Ironborn scum. </em>He wouldn’t have had an effect on Greyjoy anyway.  Ser Rodrik went first, and then Cley Cerwyn, and then Leobald Tallhart, because they knew him.  “You try, Bolton,” said Ser Rodrik. “You have a way with words.”</p><p>All the parleys took place in the gatehouse. Two ironmen, haggard and thin, sat behind their prince. Domeric brought two Dreadfort men with him too. Coal black eyes and an aquiline nose, and a smirk with many charms.</p><p>“We wear our hair the same,” Greyjoy noted. They did. Dark, straight, to the chin. They had the same taste in jewelry. Gaudy and big. They were born in the same year. In the same moon.</p><p>He’d been finishing up a story about Gulltown girls when Greyjoy poured him some of Stark’s ale. “Tell me how you came to be the <em>Kinslayer</em>.”</p><p>It was an accident. That’s always how he leads off. “I never meant to kill him. I wanted to be his brother. To share things with him. To give him a better life.” Greyjoy’s eyes were black and beady. Shining. No more smirks. No more charm. “Don’t do this, Theon. Don’t keep those boys locked up here. Surrender. You can’t win. You’ll starve them. They’re your brothers, aye?” A breath that hurt. “My foster brothers. At the Redfort. I love them. <em>I love them</em>. They were kind to me. They loved me. That’s why – they’re why. Ramsay. I wanted to meet him. Those boys. Bran and Rickon Stark. Robb Stark. They’re you’re brothers. Don’t hurt them, Theon. Don’t be like me.”</p><p>Theon Greyjoy hugged him. “No man is so accursed as the kinslayer.”<em> I laid my soul bare.</em> <em>I thought I’d made a difference.</em></p><p>The next morning it was bright and cold. Rickon Stark and Shaggydog in chains, up on the walls. The wolf’s throat went first. Then the boy’s. “Kinslayer!” Theon had shouted. “No Stark is any kin of mine!” They were dropped down. So far. They broke. Awful. Blue eyes on red. White skin. A little boy.  A fuzzy black pile, like a pelt on a bed. In the dirt. Awful. “Storm this castle if you dare!”</p><p>Cley Cerwyn cradled the boy while his men dragged the wolf into a tent. “We’ll bury them,” swam Ser Rodrik’s voice. “We’ll take this castle, and we’ll bury them.”</p><p>He remembers the boom of the battering ram. The crack. Splintering wood. Shouting. Sprinting and sweating with smoke in his nose. His boot against the wood to the doors of the Great Keep, the Great Hall. His wedding feast was in that hall. Two ironmen at the doors. He carried Sansa through those doors. Swords through their armpits. He kicked them down. Theon Greyjoy had two more Ironmen with him. The rest must have been on the walls. Six legs standing over a huddle of women and children. <em>Meera Reed wasn’t a child, not with those hips</em>. <em>Neither was Palla - </em> </p><p>He wasn’t a hero. He didn’t do anything. He just showed up with six hundred men with swords and one of the Ironmen gave the squid a kick in the arse. Theon’s knees skidded and parted the rushes and Dreadfort men took him below. More Dreadfort men wrapped children in pink like a babe’s swaddling clothes. At least they weren’t dead.  </p><p>Grandfather and Ser Rodrik put out the fire. The Rodriks were the only ones who truly knew what they were doing. Cley Cerwyn sent for extra masons. Several days cleaning up. A bird from his father. New orders. <em>From this day forward you will obey me in all things. </em>The camp slept. <em>Tomorrow, we ride for Deepwood. </em>Good. <em>I never want to step foot in this castle again. </em>An hour on a pallet. Sleep comes easier after a walk. The Winterfell heart tree was very comforting.</p><p>“Ser, may we pray with you?” His eyes are too wide, too blue. It’s Bran Stark, on his overlarge simpleton’s shoulders. And Meera Reed – <em>not a child – </em>and her brother Jojen. And the direwolf. Summer.</p><p>“My prince. I was just leaving.” Break camp. It was good to be back in the saddle, under the mottled light of the leaves. Almost like hunting. Make camp again. Break camp again. A rider, a parchment, only for him. Grey wax.</p><p>“We ride for Deepwood.”</p><p>“My lord, we <em>must </em>have your aid. Prince Bran – ”</p><p>“We ride for Deepwood.” His men knew to say a rider never came. <em>I must obey my father in all things.</em></p><p>He wakes up coughing. Twisted and sweating. Too hot. A peek of moonlight stripes across the ceiling. The window’s fogged. <em>These damn pipes. Winterfell is where Boltons go to die</em>. So concluded the annals of Royce IV, in the hand of his wife, Bella. <em>The wolves left me nothing of my lord and my king, but his hands. Flesh of my flesh and heart of my heart, soul of my soul, with your hands I shall never part. </em></p><p>Domeric has the castle, but Royce IV had a loving wife. <em>I’d never thought I’d miss the Dreadfort quite so much.</em></p><p>In moments like this he wishes he were a boy again. After a night terror, Mother would sing. Then Mother was gone, and Aunt Barbrey couldn’t sing. He knocked on her chamber door and she didn’t let him in. “There’s only one kind of comfort a man seeks from a highborn lady when he comes knocking at night, Domeric,” she’d told him. “Such comfort only a wife can give.” He never knocked again.</p><p>Sleep comes easier after a walk. Sansa’s chambers are not far away. Of course he knows where to find them. <em>What are wives for if not for comfort? For babes. </em>He doesn’t need to lay with her. Nobody has touched him like they cared since the Ryswells left. Since Aunt Barbrey left. Since the Redforts left.</p><p>There’s a song from the capital. <em>Hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm. </em></p><p>Sansa’s hands are soft and warm. <em>She </em>is soft and warm. <em>It’s her duty, it’s my right. </em>Her chamber door is closed, of course. It’s late. He waits a moment before knocking. She’s awake, she’s laughing. It’s a pretty sound. Then he hears the wolf bark. Grey Wind. <em>Of course, she sleeps with the wolf. </em></p><p>He doesn’t need to lay with her. <em>Sansa is hard and cold.</em></p><p><em>It’s your fault. I hate you. </em>He continues his walk.</p><p>In the Dreadfort he’d visit his brothers when he couldn’t sleep. Mother’s bones were far away. The dead could cause no dread. <em>Aye, that’s a good idea.</em> The crypts are dark but he has a torch. He knows at once that he doesn’t belong. <em>This is a place for Starks. </em>No Bolton was ever meant to be here. He doesn’t get very far. Lady Lyanna. Lord Rickard. Brandon. <em>Why’d you have to do it? Why’d you have to run away? Why’d you have to run your mouth? Why’d you have to die? </em>So much could have been different. <em>Perhaps Aunt Barbrey could have been happy with Lord Willam. </em></p><p>Perhaps there’d never have been a Sansa. That would have been a shame. Sansa is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and beauty deserves to exist.</p><p>
  <em>I hate you. </em>
</p><p>Ned Stark looks down and judges him. The torchlight sours his stern face. <em>Aye, I will protect your daughter, my lord. </em>He can’t look Robb Stark in the eye. <em>I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. </em></p><p>He can’t even turn his head towards the children. Bran and Rickon. <em>There’s no body in Bran’s crypt.</em> If he loved his brothers, how much had Sansa loved hers? <em>I’m sorry, Sansa. </em>He can’t get out soon enough.</p><p>It’s cold outside. Winter has come to Winterfell, and he’s not dressed for the godswood at this time of night. He goes to the sept. <em>No one will see me at this time of night. </em>It’s dark and silent but at least it’s warm. He sconces the torch and picks up a candle.</p><p>Lady Catelyn’s sept is small. It’s plain and unadorned. <em>I’ll write to Lord Horton and we’ll make it more beautiful. </em>He’ll make the entire castle more beautiful, and nobody will notice. His knees touch the stone floor. <em>No mosaic, but we’ll make one. </em>It’s just as well. He doesn’t want to look at hell right now.</p><p>It was Lord Horton who helped him forgive himself. <em>No man is so accursed as the kinslayer. The Seven forgive, lad. </em>Lord Horton, Lady Redfort. Septon Vortimer. Mychel. <em>You can’t be cursed. If you’re cursed, how am I still your friend?</em></p><p>It was Lord Horton who helped him forgive himself, but it was Grandfather who told him about the things Ramsay did. <em>The gods will see that, lad. My boy, the gods will see that. </em>He wasn’t afraid to go to the godswood after that.</p><p>It was Lord Horton who helped him forgive himself, and it was Grandfather who told him about Ramsay, but it was the Crone who saved his life. He lights a candle at her feet. <em>Thank you. To you I owe my life, to you my life I give. </em>The Crone gets another candle. <em>Please guide Aunt Barbrey with your light. </em></p><p>Next is the Maiden. He lights a candle for Sansa, because Sansa is still a maiden. And another for all of the other maidens that he knows.</p><p>Next is the Mother. <em>For Lady Catelyn, and for Lady Walda. Give them strength to win their wars.</em> The Father. <em>For my father, may he do your justice in his work. </em>A painful breath. <em>That I may rule my wife and children with justice in your name. </em>The Smith. <em>That I might build up our house and provide for her all my days. </em>The Warrior. <em>That I may defend her always.</em></p><p>The Stranger. <em>Mother. My brothers. </em>So many candles. <em>Ned Stark. It was not just, what happened to you. </em>He’d last seen Ned Stark at the Hand’s Tourney, when he lost to the Hound and looked up to the stands. Even then, Ned Stark judged him. <em>I am only a steward in your house. I swear, your daughter and grandchildren will be safe with me. </em></p><p><em>Rickon Stark. Little boy, I failed you. You were innocent and I failed you. </em>The first time he’d met Rickon Stark was at the Harvest Feast. His blue eyes were wary, and his direwolf snapped his teeth. <em>Your wolf was right about me. </em></p><p><em>Bran Stark. I’m sorry. I should have told them what I’d seen. Maybe you’d be here today. </em>Bran Stark was kind to him. Bran Stark said “be welcome at my table, Domeric Bolton.” Bran Stark’s wolf wagged his tail. <em>Your wolf was wrong about me.</em></p><p>
  <em>Robb Stark. It never should have happened. I swear, I did not know until after. Please forgive me. If I hadn’t failed before he never would have done what he did to you. I’m sorry.</em>
</p><p><em>Tap</em>, <em>tap</em>, <em>tap</em> go the direwolf’s claws, echoing on the stone floor. There’s panting and a little bark. Grey Wind.</p><p>“I did not know you kept the Seven, my lord.” Sansa. He turns. She’s wearing a grey cloak and a pink dressing gown. And a night shift, most like. It’s not warm enough.</p><p>“My lady. It is very late.” He hasn’t answered her question. He supposes he should. <em>Betwixt husband and wife, there are no secrets. </em>Once he had thought they would have this in common but now it’s clear that she wants him gone. Furrows marring that smooth white brow, and a sweet mouth turned down. “I have found solace in the Seven since I killed my brother. My lady.”</p><p>“I see.” Grey Wind’s tail swishes once, twice. He realizes he’s still kneeling and rises to his feet. “I could not sleep either. In King’s Landing I would go to the sept. Or the godswood. When I could not sleep.” She is still frowning at him, her gaze flicking up and down. <em>Blue. </em></p><p>“I will not keep you then, my lady.”</p><p>“You do not have to leave on my account, my lord. Not if you do not wish to. You are the lord of this castle.” That’s what she says, but he knows she means <em>go away</em>. She is still frowning.<em> I hate you.</em></p><p>“It is no trouble. Good night, my lady.”</p><p>He still did not feel that Winterfell was his castle.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: Death of a child. </p><p>This chapter is very sad. I don't have much to say about it except that in my head it's scored to sad piano music.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hope (Sun)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Don't hope. Don't lie to yourself. I could never love you.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>See endnotes for warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Come now, pretty Jeyne, don’t you have a trick for me? Come now Jeyne. More than a kiss – ”</p><p>He’s in the stables when he hears it, brushing down his horses. They’d had to build more stables for him, because he brought all of his horses. <em>So those were the shadows darkening the door. </em></p><p>His horses can always wait when there’s a gentle lady in distress. He glides to where the shadows are and waits for them to see.</p><p>“My lord – ”</p><p> “Such conduct is not welcome in my castle.” The man-at-arms is about to piss himself, and Lady Jeyne is spread frozen against the wall. In the sun the meltwater off an icicle drips and lands onto her face. It cuts a tear’s path down her cheek, down her chin, and dries somewhere between the laces of her gown. “I will see you in the yard in an hour.”</p><p>Lady Jeyne’s hand is quivering as she takes his offered arm, as he leads her to the Great Keep, their feet crunching over the hard-packed snow. Brown eyes, brown hair. From behind Jeyne could have been his kinswoman. But none of his kinswomen ever suffered what Jeyne Poole suffered. His father said that Lady Jeyne had been in the custody of Lord Baelish for much of the war, and that meant that the lady had been whored.</p><p>His father suggested having Lady Jeyne dismissed from Sansa’s service. Sansa refused. <em>Jeyne is my friend. </em></p><p>Something in Sansa was kind, just like Mychel.</p><p>“Are you all right, my lady?”</p><p>“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”</p><p>“Shall I see you to Maester Wolkan?”</p><p>“No, my lord. No thank you.”</p><p>An hour later he was in the yard. He brought out a flaying cross and asked the offending man-at-arms if he knew what it was for.</p><p>“Yes, my lord.”</p><p>“Will you conduct yourself thusly again?”</p><p>“No, my lord.”</p><p>“On your honor, ser.”</p><p>“On my honor, my lord.”</p><p>“Good.” The man-at-arms hung upside down until the sun set. There was no use for stocks anymore. <em>Winterfell is my castle, and Winterfell shall have my rule. </em></p><p>It was about a fortnight after the Lannisters left that he realized that Winterfell was <em>his</em> castle. No one expected Domeric Bolton to be anything like Lord Eddard or Lord Rickard or any other Stark. There were no Dreadfort retainers here who expected him to uphold Bolton tradition as it had been for thousands of years. <em>I will make this place the castle of my dreams. </em></p><p>Though the sunlight died sooner each day, in the gathering dark he looked out over his life and decided to be hopeful. If he did not die in another war he would die at Winterfell. His life would be at Winterfell. His duties were at Winterfell. There was no reason not to try to have a happy life while doing his duty.</p><p>He has a routine, and his routine makes him happy. In the morning before the castle rises he goes to the sept alone and prays for the family that once lived here, his family that’s gone. <em>No more late night encounters</em>. Then he spends an hour in the yard, an hour at the tilts, and an hour riding in the snow to let his horse cool down. And he always brushes down his own horses. <em>Exercise makes a dreamless sleep. </em>There are more petitions than he’d ever seen his father hear, and when he walks the Winter Town, there’s laughter. People wave to him and shout, <em>g’day, m’lord, </em>and <em>smile. </em>He throws coins at them and they smile some more. It’s so unlike the Dreadfort.</p><p>He is proud of his projects. He rebuilt the library tower and that’s where he spends his free time after the midday meal and before supper. The first new books to stock the shelves are the tomes he brought on sieging Winterfell. <em>My line will live here and will not be driven out. </em>The next books are his personal favorites from the Dreadfort. He writes to his father personally, because he won’t risk them being burned.</p><p>The reply makes him sweat. <em>Walda’s pregnancy is progressing smoothly. Maester Tybald gives me updates on her condition twice a fortnight. She will be in her confinement soon. I am most concerned that no announcement from you has been forthcoming. If the girl is barren and the old cat has lied to me about her treatment by the boy we shall have a problem for which I have few contingencies. Remember the agreement. The little one for gold and food. It would be most disagreeable if that provision must be reversed. My most obedient son, I trust you have been doing your duty. Father.</em></p><p>Sansa is the only thing in his life that does not make him happy, but he would not trade her for the other girl. By his estimation when he beds her Sansa will lay there like a dead eel, a fake smile on her face, as many times as he asks her to. The other one would stab him in the groin as soon as she bore a healthy child.</p><p>He still hasn’t asked her to.</p><p>In his dreams he has a wife who will tuck his hair behind his ear when he eats and giggle when he spoons berries into her mouth. They dance after supper and don’t stop touching until it’s time to dress for the day. She says <em>I love you </em>when they roll together under the furs and <em>I love you </em>when she drags her toes along his legs and <em>I love you </em>when he’s rubbing himself into the curve of her rump and smelling the place where sweat beads on the back of her neck and <em>I love you </em>when he’s planting his seed in the secret bed between her legs. He gets to rub her belly when it swells and sing to all their babies and say <em>I love you </em>to them while they grow beneath their mother’s heart.</p><p><em>I love you, </em>says the Sansa in his dreams.</p><p>When he only ever hoped of being Lord of the Dreadfort, Keeper of the Weeping Water and Guardian of the Lonely Hills, where servants did not smile and smallfolk did not laugh, he could dream of a loving wife. Now he has Winterfell, the castle of his dreams, but in his dreams now instead of a lady without a face his wife is a version of Sansa who will never be. <em>I could never love you. </em></p><p>If he beds the Sansa that lives, his dream Sansa will die, and he doesn’t want to kill her.</p><p>For a woman that hates him, the Sansa that lives is not so bad. Theirs is a cold marriage but it is a functional one. When he gives her his requirements for how he wants the castle to change her eyes light up like the sun.</p><p><em>Don’t hope, </em>he reminds himself.</p><p>“Pink rugs from Myr. There’s grey and white enough outside. Winter will be too long to have only grey and white inside too. And keep all the dried flowers from the wedding hanging up. For as long as you can. They please me.” He does not tell her but he finds the tastes of the Starks of bygone days very boring. “Any tapestries that show Starks killing Boltons must come down.”</p><p>If he had his way those things would rot in a storeroom and never see the light of day.</p><p>She purses her lips as she scans the list of subjects he wants for tapestries instead. If he kisses her, she’ll spit his tongue out. “Florian and Jonquil… Serwyn of the Mirror Shield… Ser Aemon the Dragonknight?”</p><p>“Aye, my lady. Look to Gulltown for seamstresses if you must. They can come on the ship for your septon. We have the coin.”</p><p>“But we’re already sending to White Harbor for so many things. And are you sure we can afford the musicians and the singer?” From the way her brows are knitting together he can tell she cares more for the singer than the Yi Tish vases and panes of Myrish glass. He does too. Sometimes it is more gratifying to listen than to play.</p><p>“I am sure. See to it with the steward. We have the coin.” She does not know how much Lannister gold can buy, it seems. Either that, or she has a poor head for figures. If she does, it doesn’t matter, for in nearly all other functions of a noble wife she performs proficiently. She expands the glass gardens. She makes all of his clothes, like she makes all of their tapestries. The other maids and ladies can make leathers and knits for the men-at-arms. He has never been dressed better.</p><p>He has a beautiful wife. He has a beautiful life. In everything his eye lingers on he can find something beautiful, like one of those murals in the Snowy Sept. You could spend hours picking over each and every inch and find something pretty to stare at. The sun on the icicles. The sentinel pines black against the white. The dried flowers hanging from the rafters, the rugs on the floors. Grey Wind as he sits still in majestic, wild, restraint.</p><p>There had been a dearth of women at the Dreadfort since his mother died. There were no ladies, no ladies’ maids. The washerwomen were old, the cooks all fat, the serving girls all soldiers’ wives with big bellies and children chasing after their skirts. At Winterfell, in everything his eye lingers on he can find something beautiful.</p><p>Alys who pours his wine has a dusting of freckles underneath her collarbone that make the shape of the Moonmaid when she giggles. Dara in the scullery has sweet dimples and sweeter hips and she smiles at him and says <em>aye, m’lord</em> when he asks for treats for his horses. Brennie who collects his laundry has sunny eyes and an upturned nose that he wants to squish with the pad of his thumb.</p><p>Sansa is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, but Sansa’s eyes are cold, and all of Sansa’s smiles are fake. The women of Winterfell are all beautiful too, and the women of Winterfell are all bright eyes and warm smiles and genuine giggles and <em>aye, m’lord. </em></p><p>His loins ache, and his soul aches, all dark and desperate. His father would have no qualms with this, and before the accident, neither would have he. <em>To the Crone I owe my life, to the Crone my life I give. All knights are called to godly continence, and the penance of self-denial is the root of virtue.</em> Now he can only pray that the ship from Gulltown with his septon would just sail damn faster.</p><p>He looks at Alys and Dara and Brennie and hears Septon Vortimer at the Redfort, preaching hellfire on those who did not keep custody of the eyes. He thinks of Ramsay, bastard born, and his mother, shamed. He can’t do it. He won’t do it. <em>One heart, one flesh, one soul. </em>He’d hurt himself. He’d hurt Sansa. He’d swore he’d never hurt her.</p><p>He supposes he’ll have to kill the Sansa of his dreams and bed the real one soon. She’ll be a dead eel, but she’ll be the most beautiful dead eel in the Seven Kingdoms. He’ll speak to her after supper.</p><p>He enjoys the spiced pork stew just little enough to not be called gluttonous. He washes it down with just enough wine to be called intemperate. Sansa’s smiles almost look real, so he knows he’s had too much. He places a hand over his cup.</p><p>“Thank you, Alys. No more.”</p><p>She giggles at him. “Aye, m’lord!”</p><p>As was Ned Stark’s custom he takes a different retainer to the high table every evening. Today it’s the man-at-arms who’d spent the daylight hours upside down<em>. No, my lord, I won’t do it again.</em> It’s time for dancing and as is his custom he dances with Sansa first. His plans are bleeding into how he’s leading her and how she looks. Like she’s enjoying it. Him. If he dances with her again he will start lying to himself.</p><p>When he brings her back to the high table, she seems disappointed, and he knows he already has. He dances with Jeyne next, and Beth, and Palla and half the serving girls who hadn’t yet seen twenty name days. He needs to stock up on smiles for what he’s going to do. Her cunt will be as be cold and dry as a hand chapped by the winter wind. It will be like fucking a corpse. <em>I could never love you. </em></p><p>His gaze sweeps over the high table as he’s gliding around the hall. Sansa is there, frowning, wavy furrows grooving her brow like sled tracks in the snow. She catches his eyes. Cold and blue. <em>I hate you. </em>He gulps and she looks into her lap.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Brennie,” he says. He’d stepped on her foot in his distraction.</p><p>“It’s all right, m’lord,” she says, but he can hear the hurt in her voice, see the tears beading beneath her brown eyes. He takes the hand that isn’t needed and wipes the tears away, and then he squishes her nose with his first finger, and her sunny smile is back. He smiles too.</p><p>When he breaks away he knows it’s late. He’ll have to speak to Sansa now. He moves to take his seat but Grey Wind is there, teeth bare, growling. It is strange. The wolf hasn’t done that for moons yet. It had even seemed like Grey Wind had started to like him.</p><p>“Grey Wind,” he says. “No.” Grey Wind snaps its teeth. Sansa’s hand appears on the wolf’s head and runs her palm along its snout. The wolf gives him one last growl, moves aside and lays his head in Sansa’s lap, lip curling, nostrils flared, eyes cold and blue.</p><p>“Excuse me, my lord. I will retire for the evening. I do not feel well. Good night, my lord.” She’s gone before he can speak to her.</p><p>There is always tomorrow.</p><p>In his chambers he reads. For comfort he reads legends from the Age of Heroes, but he doesn’t want comfort tonight. He doesn’t want to read about heroes rescuing their lady loves and riding into the sunset. <em>My life’s not like that. </em>Perhaps he would find no comfort there anymore. To learn he reads histories, but tonight, he can’t learn, he can’t read. He can’t focus on the words.</p><p>He takes out his secret copy of the Seven-Pointed Star and reads about the Maiden. <em>This is what I must be reading tonight. </em>These words he can focus on.</p><p>The candle is burning low when there’s a knock. A visitor. He toys with ignoring it. Whoever it is will have be turned away. <em>If it’s Brennie I will want to be kind to her.</em> He moves to the door.</p><p>“My lord,” she says. “May I come in, my lord?” It’s Sansa.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to say. He’d never expected Sansa to come here. She can’t be turned away.</p><p>“My lady. I thought you were unwell.” She does not look well. There is a torch in her hand and its shadows cast her face in sallow colors. Her plait is messy and her eyes are ringed with sinking dark and she is looking down. She is wrapped in her not-warm-enough pink dressing gown, and it’s covered with grey wolf hairs.</p><p>She nods to brush him off. “My lord, may I come in?”</p><p>“You do not need my permission, my lady.”</p><p>He takes the torch from her and sconces it. She’s looking around the room, from the desk to the dressing table to the bed, all around. She looks like she ought to sit down, so he offers her the chair where he had been reading. He takes the chair by his desk.</p><p>“How may I be of service, my lady?”</p><p>She looks in his direction, but not at him. Not at his face. “I – ” she says. “I.” She starts to wring her hands. “There was a raven from my mother,” she says. “There are questions about us. Rumors. About why there is no baby. They all say that I am barren.”</p><p>Her hands are shaking and her voice is so soft. He can hear her lip quivering. If she were any other girl he’d waste no moment to comfort her, to take her hands and squeeze them still. Hold her until she stopped shaking. But Sansa won’t want his comfort.</p><p>“I would do my duty, my lord.” She takes a sharp breath in and rises to her feet. She fumbles with the knot and the hairy pink dressing gown drops to the floor, and it’s his turn to take a sharp breath in, because her night shift is short and red and gauzy and hides nothing and looks like it will feel like the starry heaven under his palms.</p><p>He checks himself. She won’t want to be here too long. He can’t just touch her like he wants. And besides, she looks so scared. Lower lip quivering, eyes cast down. Her pink nipples are pinching with cold, and her knees are knocking together. Shaking. Her stance is familiar. Back arched to make the teats jut out, hips thrust forward, legs spread just a little. The one you see the Gulltown girls make when they’re standing in a line, waiting to be picked. Highborn ladies are not supposed to stand that way. Wives are not supposed to stand that way.</p><p>She’s play-acting a whore but she looks like a frightened child. He wants nothing more than to wrap her in a blanket, hold her to his chest, and say they don’t have to go through with it.</p><p>“You are sure that is what you want?” It seems cruel to ask her to smile. She has already brought herself so low. Even though she hates him he cannot bring himself to demand of her more pain.<em> This is not what I want.</em></p><p>She nods, meek as a mouse. A wolf whipped, fangs sawed off and claws filed down. He even misses her defiance. “Yes, my lord.”</p><p>“Very well then,” he says. But he wants her to know. “I do not like it that you are afraid of me.” His wife should not be afraid of him. “Please tell me if you are hurting or if you ever want to stop.”</p><p>He’s still in loose linens and soft breeches for the night. The shirt can go, the breeches stay. And his hose. If he feels too much he could get carried away. He rises too, and steers her towards the bed.</p><p>How should this be done? Any way where he can’t see her tears. She must be about to cry. It makes his stomach turn. When she gets on he touches her as gently as possible. To show her.</p><p>“Hands down. Like you’re crawling. That’s it. It’s all right.” He nudges her inner thigh so she knows to spread a bit wider. He kneels behind and undoes her plait, combing through it, fanning it all over her back. She looks just like the Sansa in his dreams, and he still needs to be ready. He allows himself to stroke her back, to sniff her hair. He can feel her breathing, deep and quick. And she smells like whatever would be left after the Lyseni love goddess and the idol of fertility from the Summer Isles had romped together on freshly laundered sheets.</p><p>He might be ready but she’s not. “I’m going to touch you,” he says. So she won’t be startled. He can see her head dip once, twice. A nod. Through the coarse hairs he feels the warmth. He can tell her lips are smooth. No hanging flaps. A few brushes along the seam and then he tries. <em>Hot. </em>Slippery as an eel. Tight as a vice.</p><p>The scent on his finger he wants to trap in a crystal bottle with a flower stopper, like his mother’s perfume. He wants to drench himself in it and guzzle it all down like Reek did once. It made Reek sick. It puts fire in his belly. His finger exits his mouth with a pop. Just be done with it. There’s damp on the head. Slow, against the seam. Just the head. <em>Slow, remember</em>. He has to force himself. <em>Don’t hurt her. </em>Can’t go fast -</p><p>“<em>Wait</em> – ”</p><p>“Wait?”</p><p>Now he’s mad. He hopes she can’t hear it, can’t see it on his face, because she turns around. “Did I hurt you,” he forces himself to say. Gently. No snapping.</p><p>“No,” she says. Her eyes aren’t scared. Her eyes aren’t cold. <em>Don’t hope, don’t lie to yourself. </em>“I thought,” she says. Fast. “I thought there would be kissing. Because there was kissing. Before.”</p><p>He remembers. The dewy damp on his thigh. Smeared and shiny. Sansa <em>likes</em> kissing.</p><p>But he’s still mad. “Why would you kiss someone who hates you?”</p><p>Whatever was in her eyes before is gone. The fear is back and he can’t be mad anymore. She flinches back away from him. Again. And her eyes go down. Again.</p><p> “I – ” She is playing with the sleeve cuffs of her night shift. Red and ruffly. “I. I was. Very wrong. To say that to you. My lord. It was not fair of me. You have been nothing but kind to me. My lord. You are very good to everyone in this castle. I am very sorry that I said that.” Her eyes come back up. The tears are there, swimming like trout in the blue. “Please forgive me, my lord.”</p><p>“You do not hate me.”</p><p>“No, my lord. I do not hate you.”</p><p>It’s a start. He can’t bring himself to smile, but the scowl clears away. <em>Be forgiving and merciful, as the Mother is forgiving and merciful.</em></p><p>“Be forgiven, my lady. Let all be well between us.” What he wants to do is hold her close and hug her, but that’s too much like love. <em>Don’t hope. I could never love you. </em>So he kisses her instead.</p><p>
  <em>We’re going to finish this. </em>
</p><p>If she’s an eel she’s not a dead one. A lightning eel from Sothoryos, the kind Jeyne Redfort likes to read about. If her gauzy shift feels like starry heaven, he doesn’t know how to describe her skin. Her mouth. Her hair.</p><p>Now the breeches need to go. The shift too.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she slurs, and there’s a red dawn in her face, peeking through her eyes, rising in her cheeks.</p><p>“Kissing,” he manages. There are coarse red hairs catching between his teeth and sticking to his tongue but that doesn’t matter because his nose is in her hair and this is the best smell in the world, the only smell that he ever wants to smell, ever.</p><p>Besides. She’s delicious.</p><p>She howls like a wolf, and when it’s over, she has him scrambling. A harmonic groan goes up when he starts. Both of them. The skin of her wrist is so smooth under his palm. He’s not afraid of breaking it, of hurting her, because her nails are digging into his scalp. Her claws.</p><p>Slow is dead.</p><p>She rips his peak from him with delightful violence. He’s normally quiet about it. Six spurts. No, seven. If he spends any longer recovering, he will end up hooking his leg over hers and pressing his face into her hair, caressing her cheeks, and she won’t want that. There was no use doing that. Kissing was to get her started. Doesn’t belong, after the end. <em>Don’t hope.</em> <em>I could never love you. </em>When he catches his breath he bears the cold stone on his feet and pulls out the thickest dressing gown he owns, and then he wraps a pelt around his shoulders so if he tilts his head enough his cheek can touch the fur. The combined weight of them almost feels like someone’s still touching him.</p><p>“My lord,” she says. He turns around. The red dawn is gone from her face. A red sunset. Dying light. “Would you like me to go, my lord?”</p><p>She’s bundled up under his furs. Cozy. It doesn’t look like she wants to go. <em>Don’t lie to yourself. </em>“Only if you wish it, my lady.”</p><p>The sun is gone and her expression sings night. The deep, unshakeable sadness. The loneliness. A moment later and it’s gone. She’s wearing the mask again. “I will go. Good night, my lord.”</p><p>“Here.” It’s her shift, her hairy pink dressing gown. He passes her a cloak too, because it’s warm. She slips into them and makes for the door. Eyes down, not quite looking at him.  “Good night, my lady.”</p><p>The door shuts.</p><p>He sleeps for maybe an hour. <em>I should have told her to stay. </em>But that was a silly thought. She did her duty, now it’s done. Sleep comes easier after a walk. He grabs a torch and opens the door.</p><p>She’s in the corridor too. She speaks first.</p><p>“My lord,” she says. “May I join you, my lord?”</p><p>He looks her over. Up and down. Hair still undone. Wearing his cloak. No hint of the hairy pink dressing gown.  </p><p>Perhaps he has cause to hope. But then he remembers. <em>I could never love you. </em></p><p>That doesn’t matter right now.</p><p>“Aye.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: Unpursued temptations to infidelity, sexual content, and "nasty degenerate male thoughts". </p><p>The line about Reek and perfume was the nastiest thing I've ever come up with.</p><p>Happy St. Patrick's day. For the sake of the vulnerable I hope everyone is enjoying their corned beef, Irish red ales, and Christie Moore playlists at your own home bars.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Warmth (Tears)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I’m not lying to myself. I can’t be lying to myself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>See endnotes for warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re pregnant.”</p><p>Sansa is standing in his solar, hands folded together, bodice too damn tight. He wonders how she’s even breathing. The grey silk is pulled taut, straining with threats to tear. Frayed pink stay laces about to snap. Just enough slack at the end to make a bow, and the gown won’t even close. A violent sneeze and he’ll have to give her his doublet.</p><p>She’s a welcome distraction from the correspondence from the burn-happy Night’s Watch rangers and their yarns about the end of the world. He’d never heard anything more absurd than wildlings who’d kept the old ways for eight thousand years prostrating in droves before the flames of R’hllor. He doesn’t want to look at them anymore, so he looks at Sansa instead.</p><p>By his lights her breasts have nearly doubled in size. It’s how he knew. She nods and they squish together a bit. For near on a week he’s suspected. He didn’t need her to tell him.</p><p>“How long?”</p><p>“Two moons, my lord. Maester Wolkan says.”</p><p>It makes sense to him. After having her seventy-seven nights in a row with no interruptions she had better have fallen pregnant, else she was truly barren.</p><p>He can’t help but smile at her. “My lady. Sansa. This is excellent news. I cannot tell you how happy you have made me.” He rises from his chair and opens his arms to her. “Come here, Sansa.”</p><p>She crosses the space between them and he clears off space on his desk. He still does not feel like he can just hug her like he wants, so he kisses her soundly, because she likes kisses. He can hug her while they’re kissing.</p><p>She pulls away from him to breathe. Gods be good, her skin is <em>glowing</em>. Shiny hair like a bright red dawn, cheeks like spring primroses, and lips as ripe as cherries. Sansa Stark is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and she has never looked more beautiful to him.</p><p>“Are we going to – ”</p><p>“Only if you feel up to it.” That’s what gave him doubts at first. She doesn’t seem to be sick. Tired in the mornings and averse to eggs but not sick.</p><p> She nods at him and her smile is like summer sunshine. He kisses her again and feels her hips twist against his loins. Then he’s fumbling around for his knife. She needed longer stay laces anyway. As her bosom spills forward she gives an airy sigh. Relief. Red marks on her breasts where the seams were. Perhaps he can massage out the discomfort.</p><p>Another kiss then, and she’s on his desk. This is always how their kisses end. Their joining. It’s not love between them. He can’t just kiss her when he wants. He can’t just touch her, can’t just hug her when he wants. It’s not love, but it’s something like warmth, and it is not so bad.</p><p><em>Don’t lie to yourself. </em>She is almost the Sansa of his dreams, but she’ll never say <em>I love you, </em>and he can never say it to her. But they’re going to have a baby and maybe she’ll let him put his hand on her belly and say <em>I love you </em>before he sings<em>.</em></p><p>He has his nose in her hair and his hands woven through hers and tears in his eyes when he spends.</p><p>“Thank you,” he tells her.</p><p>“What is wrong, my lord?” she says.</p><p>“Nothing is wrong, my lady. I told you. I am very glad to be a father.” His handkerchief. They can wipe off with it. “You make – this news makes me very happy. These are tears of joy.” She needs his doublet. As she’s wrapping herself in pink he ties up his breeches and clears his throat. “I will call for a gown. For you.”</p><p>As he touches the doorknob he realizes. She has done her duty. He does not need to lay with her. Not for at least a year. <em>No more hugs, no more kisses. </em>His throat constricts while talks to the guard and he needs to clear his throat again.</p><p>“My lady,” he says. “Please excuse me. I should not have asked that of you.” It’s hard to say. “You are with child. If you do not want – ”</p><p>“No,” she says, “it is no trouble, my lord. It is your right.”</p><p>“I would not impose it on you.”</p><p>“It is no imposition.”</p><p>He doesn’t know what to do with that. Leave it there and change the subject. She takes the chair across from him.</p><p>“Should we be making an announcement?”</p><p>“No,” she says. “Maester Wolkan says to wait longer. Two moons at least. In case I lose it.” She looks down and his heart stops. He doesn’t like the thought of losing the baby either.</p><p>“Aye, then.” Then he realizes<em>. </em>“If it’s not safe. You don’t have to – ”</p><p>“Maester Wolkan says it’s safe.” Now she’s looking at him and he can see the tears. “As often as you need, my lord.”</p><p>He hasn’t heard that voice in a while. Meek as a mouse. A wolf whipped, fangs sawed off and claws filed down. He never wants to hear it again.</p><p>“Today should be a happy day,” he says. He can sit on her side of the desk. The tears are warm on his thumb. “Today we have joyous news. I would not have you cry.”</p><p>“Yes, my lord,” she says. “There is,” she starts. “Other news as well. My mother, she – they had their baby. She and Lord Tywin. His name is Jason.”</p><p>“That is wonderful, my lady. We must send our congratulations.” He can’t help but smile at that either. “Now we both have new brothers.”</p><p>But that comment doesn’t make Sansa smile. Her frown goes deeper. It was the wrong thing to say. Walton Bolton is Domeric’s treasured baby brother. Sansa does not see Jason Lannister that way.</p><p>“My lady – ” he starts. But there’s a knock on the door. The guard calls. The maid with the gown. He doesn’t let her in but takes the gown for himself. It’s white piped with red. Pretty.</p><p>“Sansa,” he starts again. “If there is anything. That I can do. To make your life easier. To ease your burdens. Take your duties away. I would do it. Anything you ask. For you. And the baby.” She is still frowning. Something, something, he has to do something. There’s a thought he has but it has his heart battered like the ground under a stampede. He tries, and it’s the bravest thing he’s ever done.</p><p>He takes her hands.</p><p>She doesn’t flinch and it’s a miracle.</p><p>“My mother.” This hurts. “My father, he did not. He did not let her rest. Between children. Or from her duties.” A gulp. “I was. The only one. That lived.” A deep breath will do the trick. “I know it was different with your mother. She bore six healthy children. But. What happened to my mother. I do not want it to happen to us. To you.”</p><p>She nods and squeezes his hands. Her eyes go soft and she even smiles a little. <em>Don’t hope. It’s just about the baby. </em>“I understand,” she says. “I will tell you if I need anything.” Perhaps her smile is not so little. “That is good.” Her words come out so slow. “You want to be a good father.” She lets go of his hands and their warmth is gone. “Maester Wolkan says the baby is here.” She touches the spot just over her mound, just under her belly button. “Would you like to touch him?”</p><p><em>Or her</em>, he thinks, but he’s not about to spoil it, and he’s grinning like it’s his fifth name day.</p><p>“Here,” she says, but his hand touches silk and it’s not good enough. He tries under her skirt, but around her waist the silk’s too tight, so he opens the front of her gown even more.</p><p>“Hello, little baby,” he says. “I’m your father.” Sansa’s belly is so warm under his palm. It’s still flat but maybe if he kisses it it’ll grow a little faster. “I love you.” He looks up at his wife. “Thank you, Sansa.”</p><p>The white gown, she’ll need it now for true. He hands it to her and she just laughs. His heart fills up and he wonders if it’s the first time she’s ever laughed for him.</p><p>“That one’s too small.”</p><p>They can’t share the news yet, but they can tell their septon, and have Sansa’s belly blessed. Septon Bevidere lays his hands on the baby and says the Mother’s litany, and then the both of them fall to their knees. He makes sure Sansa has a pillow to protect her from the floor. He’s beneath the Father’s altar, but it’s the Mother to whom he prays. <em>Protect my Sansa please. Grant her victory and see her through the end. Bless us with a healthy child. </em>At her feet he lays a cutting of blue winter roses, and the colors swim with the scents in the flickering candlelight.</p><p>For good measure they visit the godswood too, and he offers up his strongest stud. The old gods are their gods too. He has Sansa stand back so the blood doesn’t reach her as he’s elbow deep into the red and hanging up the horse’s guts. <em>Mother, do you see? </em>He asks to the weirwood’s face. <em>Mother, I’m going to be a father. Mother, watch over our baby. </em>He asks all the dead Starks and Boltons too.</p><p>If Winterfell was beautiful before it is gorgeous now. He’s harder pressed to on his morning rides but he manages. From the outside, Winterfell is a castle made of fine-cut glass, or moonstone crystals, with winter dark at its heart. He wants to freeze it the way it is and keep it in miniature on the shelf so he can take it out on a balmy summer evening when his hair is as pale as his eyes and say <em>this is the castle where I fell in love. </em></p><p>Sansa doesn’t love him yet but when she smiles at him and brings his hand to her swelling belly in the mornings, before bedtime, he can say that he has hope. <em>I have time, </em>he tells himself. <em>We have time. </em>The warmth is growing every day, just like their baby, and maybe when she’s born or when she’s old enough to sing and dance Sansa might say <em>I love you. </em>He thinks to all those moons ago when she said she could never love him and he tells himself that she was wrong. <em>I’m not lying to myself. I can’t be lying to myself.</em></p><p>Her eyes outshine the sun when she looks at him and when she smiles it’s real. He’s seen enough of the fake ones. And Grey Wind wags its tail when it sees him and even licks his face. And then there’s her laughter. <em>How could I be lying when I hear such lovely laughter</em>?</p><p>And she still comes to him every night.</p><p>“Why?” he asked, the first day they knew.</p><p>She flushed red as a weirwood leaf, looked him dead in the eye, and said “because I want you,” bold as brass, and she was the one to kiss him soundly and put her hands on his chest and he didn’t even care that she wanted to be the one to mount up because he was just too happy.</p><p>She’d said she’d never want him and she was wrong. <em>I’m not lying to myself.</em></p><p>When it was time to send the letters it was a glorious morning. The frost made crystal curlicues on his solar widow and the warblers sang a sweet winter song. <em>I want to warble with you, birds. I want to sing to the world that I will be a father.</em></p><p>Lady Catelyn and Lord Tywin are pleased. Their note of congratulations is courteous. Sansa gets a longer letter, which she does not let him read. That’s fine with him. It’s from her mother. His note from his father is just for him too. Personal, mixed with business.</p><p>
  <em>What say you on this business with the wildlings and the Watch?</em>
</p><p><em>They’re freaks,</em> he thinks, but he can’t write that down. <em>It seems that their fanatic devotion to the foreign fire cult clouds their judgment. They speak to the wildlings and hear what they seek to hear. There were too few survivors from Lord Commander Mormont’s ranging to produce a credible account. Without an unbiased verification I do not think we have sufficient cause to act in any way but normal.</em></p><p>But that part of the letter does not interest him. As many differences as he has with his father, he still wants his advice.</p><p>One night he beds down with Sansa. She’s still glowing when they’re done. “Good night, my lady,” he says. “Good night, little baby.”</p><p>He closes his eyes and has another nightmare.</p><p>He’s beneath the walls of Winterfell again, and the morning is bright and cold. Like that day. Up on the walls, he can see them. The man, the child and the wolf in chains. The wolf’s throat goes first. A fuzzy grey pile, like a pelt on the bed. “Kinslayer!” the man shouts. “No Stark is any kin of mine!” The child’s throat goes next. Dropped down. Broken. Blue eyes on red. Cold and dead.</p><p>A little girl.</p><p>He looks up on the walls. The same hair. Dark, straight, and to the chin. The same taste in jewelry. Gaudy and big.</p><p>“Storm this castle if you dare!”</p><p>
  <em>That’s my voice. That’s my face. </em>
</p><p>He wakes up coughing. Twisted and sweating. Too hot.</p><p>“Domeric?” It’s Sansa, and she is shaking his shoulder, and that’s the first time she’s ever called him by his given name. “My lord?”</p><p>“Sansa. My l – my lady.” It’s all he can get out.</p><p>“You had a night terror,” she says, and she wraps her arms around him, pressing her breasts and belly into his flank. “You were saying ‘don’t do this.’ You were saying ‘I’m sorry’.” Sansa has never just hugged him before. Not without kisses. “Would you like to talk about it?”</p><p>“No,” he says. It is too awful to talk about. “I am sorry if I woke you, my lady.”</p><p>“I was awake,” she says. “The baby woke me.” She pulls back and studies him, and in the stripes of moonlight he can see her eyes flick back and forth. Blue but warm. Alive. He sighs.</p><p>She opens her mouth. “I do not think I ever told you this,” she says, “but I spoke with Ser Rodrik. About what happened here. During the siege. With Rickon.” She frowns a bit, and purses her lips, but then she opens her mouth again. Her voice swims like trout in the blue stripes of moonlight. “It wasn’t your fault. It was wrong of me to say so. I’m sorry. It was all Theon’s doing. He’s dead now. He got what he deserved.”</p><p>He nods, and then he’s slipping back against the bedding because he’s just so tired. “It was awful,” he says.</p><p>“You were dreaming.”</p><p>“I was dreaming,” he says, and soon he’s dreaming again.</p><p>“I love you,” the dream Sansa says.</p><p>He’s still tired when the morning comes, but there’s still so much to do. To keep storing for the rest of the winter. He can’t just stay abed with Sansa like he wants. But he remembers in the night she gave him a hug, so he gives her a hug, and she doesn’t flinch away, and it’s wonderful because his heart is filling up with warmth that seeps into him in waves with every breath of her lungs. He even feels their baby kick against his abdomen and in that moment his chambers at Winterfell are the most beautiful place in the world. He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to, and when she smiles like sunshine he knows he can.</p><p>He rushes through his routine. Not the hour in the sept but the rest. The hour in the yard. The hour at the tilts. The hour riding in the snow to let his horse cool down. And he lets a stable boy brush down his horses. If he gets the petitions done fast, he can get his correspondence done fast, and if he gets his correspondence done fast, he can spend more time with Sansa.</p><p>He drums his fingers against the arm of his chair as the last petitioner turns to go. <em>Finally, </em>he thinks. <em>Finally, we’re done here. </em>He steps down from the dais and starts for his solar. The guard opens the door for him and he sits down.</p><p><em>Right, let’s get to it. </em>The pile of scrolls isn’t too high. <em>An hour, no longer.</em></p><p>He’s corking the inkwell when there’s a knock on the door.</p><p>“My lord, the First Ranger here to see you.”</p><p><em>Fuck that.</em> No one had said that Jon Snow was coming. He hadn’t sent word ahead. <em>Between a fortnight and a moon between Winterfell and the Wall. They could have spared a bird. </em>Now his goodbrother in black was here, he’d have to pour his wine, he’d have to entertain.</p><p>He couldn’t spend time with Sansa.</p><p>“Enter,” he says. <em>Let’s just get this over with.</em></p><p>Like he expects, Jon Snow is sullen and scowling, with his silent white wolf at his feet. Unlike he expects, his dark hair is still wet with snow. He’s carrying a raven cage in the crook of his arm, a dirty rag hiding the bird. <em>Perhaps the freaks at the Wall have forgotten how ravens work. </em></p><p>“Goodbrother,” Domeric says. “Come and sit.” He reaches for the decanter but Jon Snow waves him off.</p><p>“Bolton,” he says. If at all possible, Jon Snow’s scowl seems to deepen. “I’m not here for your wine. I’m not here for your hospitality. Not in the castle where I grew up. I ask for a bed for the night and no more. After that I ride again.” Jon Snow flexes his gloved hand as if gripping a ghostly sword. “I am here because nobody has been listening. The North has ignored us. The Watch. Friends of the Watch, you call yourselves, and yet you spurn our calls. Us, the shield that guards the realms of men. I say to you. Your shield is breaking. Your light in the darkness is dying. We need your help. <em>You</em> need to help. If you care for the North, you <em>will help. </em>If you care for this castle, you <em>will help.</em> If you care for <em>my sister, </em>or any other person who lives and breathes in these Seven Kingdoms. <em>You will help. </em>The dead walk, Bolton. The Others have returned. The Long Night is coming. Give us the men we need, and fight with us in the War for the Dawn.”</p><p>Jon Snow puts the raven cage on the table, yanks off the rag, and reveals a rotten, twitching hand.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: Sexual Content, disturbing dreams.</p><p>Domeric just couldn't help catching those feels. Come on bro, don't be stupid. Grey Wind's licking your face! Don't call him "it"!</p><p>Sometimes you go "did I just write that". For me that moment was the beginning of this chapter. What's that? The Long Night? I didn't hear you, sorry, I was looking at BOOBS.</p><p>When I was pregnant I used to have dreams about losing the baby all the time. They started as soon as I knew she was there at like 4weeks. Now she's born, I about accidentally dropping her, furniture falling. Her doing other stupid crap that will kill her. Sometimes my husband dreams about gruesome deaths too. These dreams SUCK. They are awful. The worst! Worse than the dreams where any other number of bad things happen.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Flowers (Embrace)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What a craven I am. So much time I wasted.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>See endnotes for warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Ser Wylis. Report. The fleet from Dragonstone. Are all the ships still set to arrive?”</p><p>The Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North looks paler than he ever has. Older than he ever has. When he speaks Domeric can see the beginnings of worry wrinkles tracking across his brow, frown lines around his mouth. They’ve run out of the special cream, and with the amount of leeching he’s been doing, he’s going to run out of blood too.</p><p>His father is stressed. They’re all stressed.</p><p>“The bird from Sisterton. It said only three were downed in the storms. Not to the sea, but unfit to sail. The dragonglass should dock at Eastwatch in a fortnight.” Ser Wylis has lost weight. His jowls sag as far as his whiskers, and his voice is more mournful than any merman, more woeful than any walrus has a right to be. The old heir to White Harbor pinches the corners of his mouth and strokes down, his fingers grabbing his lower lip like a fishhook. “Of the Valemen the word is better. The ships, they’re all set to make it. To Eastwatch in a fortnight.” Ser Wylis sighs. “In all of this, these tidings are very fortunate.”</p><p><em>Finally, some good news. </em>That cannot be said for the rest of it.</p><p>Rickard Karstark looks like half a wight himself, if not for the dull cast of his blue eyes. <em>Wight eyes are bright, </em>Jon Snow had said. <em>Bright and cold. </em>And blue. Just like that day. His son Torrhen looks no better. Daryn Hornwood, always flashing a cheeky grin, hasn’t taken his hand off the lower half of face. A beard of flesh, blood and bone. Cley Cerwyn, eyes darting about. Sweating. Nervous. Helman and Leobald Tallhart exchange glances. Neither are past forty yet but they’re both greying and grim. As always, Howland Reed is lurking. Robett Glover cracks his knuckles, over and over, and the mountain clansmen mutter darkly in their chairs. Grandfather sits silent, and for once, his Ryswell uncles do too.</p><p>Even Smalljon Umber is here. It’s that serious. He and Maege Mormont glower at the end of the table with their trusted men. Every single one of them has seen a hand, a head, a foot, and they all know what it means.</p><p>War again.</p><p>It’s far too soon, and they’re all feeling it.</p><p>This time, peace cannot sneak up behind their enemy’s back. Peace cannot be birthed from secret letters and handshakes in the dark. There will be no parleys for peace. Peace must be won on the open field. With fire and blood. The only peace will come by the bow, or by the sword.</p><p>It’s a morbid sight. All the lords of the North gathered in Winterfell’s Great Hall, gathered together to speak on how best to march beyond the Wall to die. But for the dried flowers hanging from the rafters, it does not feel like the merry place where he danced with Sansa to sweet harp music every night for moons and moons. It’s still a castle made of fine-cut glass, or moonstone crystals, with winter dark at its heart, but it feels nothing like the castle of his dreams.</p><p>It still hasn’t truly sunk in. <em>I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to go.</em></p><p>“Lord Glover,” his father says next. “The evacuation of Deepwood. It is underway?”</p><p>“Aye,” says Lord Robett. “And the mountains too. All the longships have left for Flint’s Finger. With the food.”</p><p>“Good.” He can see his father’s jaw clenching. “Ser Ronnel. Report. The evacuation of Barrowton.”</p><p>“The column bound for Moat Cailin has left. The column for the Rillseat – ”</p><p>“Has arrived,” Grandfather interrupts. He’s frowning. “Roose. Explain to me again. Barrowton is a strong town. A good position. Defensible – ”</p><p>“It’s made of wood,” his father snaps. “One blunder during a wight attack and fifty thousand souls die. They burn.”</p><p>“Aye,” Grandfather says. “They burn.” He shakes his head. “I have lived to see more years than I could have hoped. I never…” He trails off in a sigh and doesn’t finish the sentence. Nobody wants to talk about how absurd this all is.</p><p>“My ships for White Harbor have left,” supplies Rickard Karstark. His voice is hollow. Old men have the hardest time believing that what they’ve always known as normal can fall like autumn leaves before their eyes. “They carry many folk from Umber lands as well.” The Smalljon nods but doesn’t speak.</p><p>None of the young men speak. Domeric can see it in their faces. Cley and Daryn and Torrhen, and his Ryswell cousins. <em>We were just getting started.</em> It makes him angry. <em>Our lives were just getting started.</em></p><p>None of that matters at the end of the world.</p><p><em>That’s not true, </em>something in him says, and that something sounds like Jon Snow. <em>Life matters. Life is what we protect. Life is why we fight.</em></p><p>Life. Sansa. The baby.</p><p>
  <em>Why we fight.</em>
</p><p>Daryn Hornwood’s other hand is pinching the bridge of his nose. It looks rather funny but there’s nothing to laugh about. Daryn’s leaving his wife and child too. Daryn has an infant son, Harys, tucked safe away at New Castle with his lady mother. <em>Harys, </em>Daryn said<em>. After my father Halys, and Alys’ brother Harrion. </em>It’s been hard to smile at Daryn. Daryn got to meet his son.</p><p>
  <em>And I may never get to meet mine. </em>
</p><p>He wants to break a wall. <em>I wasted so much time I could have spent with her.</em></p><p>His father goes over the projected arrivals of reinforcements from the rest of the realm. Troop counts. Crop yields. The state and placement of supply lines. Valemen first, to Eastwatch. Westermen and rivermen next, up the Kingsroad. They should arrive at Winterfell within the moon. Reachers and Stormlanders next, with food aplenty, and the Dornish last of all.</p><p>How could they have dealt with this if there had not been peace?</p><p>One last time. Going over the defenses. One last line of old men, and all the green boys at home. Preparing for a siege. Any ladies who could leave at the Moat, or at White Harbor, or the Rills. Somewhere they could flee.</p><p>His father kicks him under the table and no one else notices. <em>Aye, father, I know. My control is slipping. </em>He eases up on gripping his cup and focuses on the flowers overhead. <em>They’re beautiful. They please me. </em>He lets out a breath and for just one moment things can be all right.</p><p>“Does anyone have any questions?” His father scans the hall. Stillness, silence.</p><p>“Does anyone have any objections?” More stillness. More silence. “Very well then. I remind you all. This is no one’s fault. We <em>all </em>missed this. <em>We all dismissed this. </em>But now we are all here. Our levies are raised. Tomorrow we all march.” Domeric can see the ball in his father’s throat bob as he swallows.  <em>It’s better than panic. Looking to care for nothing at all is better than panic. </em>“Every man with strength left to hold a spear, highborn and low. Some of us may not return. Perhaps none of us will.  We are leaving our children behind, our wives behind, our lives behind, but that should not matter, because what we will face if we do not march is worse. A night that lasts a thousand years. The end of all we know for <em>us. </em>The south would see us as a warning, and only then would they be roused to war. Then it is our homes that would burn. It is our folk, our wives and children, who would die only to walk again if we do not do this. We leave – we march so that the south will see us. So that the south will march with us. Let the gods be our witness. The old and the new. We march so the lights will not go out. We march for life.”</p><p>A sweeping glance around the room. It’s never been more grim.</p><p>“We march so that life will go on, even if it has to go on without us. Tell this to your men. We feast tonight. Break your bread and drink your ale. Then get some rest and prepare to go stare death in the face.”</p><p>That means it’s time to go. Under a miasmic shadow the cream of the North files out of his hall, all shuffling feet and scraping chairs.</p><p>
  <em>It’s real. </em>
</p><p>“Domeric.” It’s his father. Grandfather Rodrik too. A hand on his shoulder, a hand on his arm. “There is still a chance for your wife to evacuate. There is still time. Up until Lord Tywin and Lord Edmure arrive –”</p><p>“She won’t go.” He doesn’t need to keep his voice measured now. He just can’t show her his anger. “We have this discussion every night. She says there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” It hurts to talk so he whispers after a strangled chortle. “Besides. It’s too late. Maester Wolkan says she can’t be moved anymore.”</p><p>He couldn’t convince her. Not after Walda and Walton left for Darry. Not after Alys Hornwood left for White Harbor. Not after Aunt Barbrey and Lady Sybelle and the Glover children left for the Rillseat, for Flint’s Finger. A hundred hushed conversations and he couldn’t convince her. Soft smiles and stern words from Father and Grandfather. They couldn’t convince her either. <em>What makes them think one more time would make a difference?</em></p><p>Father and Grandfather exchange a look. This time it’s Grandfather who speaks. “Domeric,” he says. “It does not have to be this way. The sleds - I brought you extra sleds. The snow, it’s smooth, it’s <em>fast</em> – there’s enough room, there are enough waycastles, villages. She won’t have to camp outside for even a night – ”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter, Grandfather. She won’t go. Her ladies won’t go. <em>There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” </em></p><p>His cup is empty, but the decanter is full. Another pour, what does it matter. His stomach’s turning anyway.</p><p>Father and Grandfather know. He doesn’t feel like talking. Still it’s good to just have them <em>there. </em>They start their own conversation.</p><p><em>I wasted so much time, </em>he chides himself. <em>We could have had so much time. What a craven I was. What a craven I am.</em></p><p>He has to tell her.</p><p>While he’s staring into his wine he hears a scuffle and a cough. They’re not alone in the room. Cley Cerwyn is still here, shaking like a leaf, wispy as a ghost. He’s holding a parchment and doing his best not to crumple it in his twitchy fingers.</p><p>“My lord,” he says once. Not loud enough. “Lord Ryswell.”</p><p>“Lord Cerwyn.”</p><p>Cley looks down at the parchment and stops his shaking. “I.” A swallow and a hardened face. “My lord. Your granddaughter. Bethany. The bastard in her belly. It’s mine. I claim it – him. Or her.” Another cough. “My lord. I beg your forgiveness. After. I should have asked you – she should have been a woman wed.” <em>We all thought we’d have more time.</em> Cley takes a big breath in, runs a hand over his face, and steels himself yet again. “This is my will. If I do not live. The child will have Castle Cerwyn. Everything I leave behind. And. If there can be a proxy wedding – ”</p><p>Grandfather sighs and waves a hand. “We’ll figure it out, lad.” He turns to look at Father. “Roose. Your leave.” A nod. “Domeric.” The tightest embrace he’s ever had. “My boy, she will be fine.”</p><p>Now it’s just Boltons again.  </p><p>“Domeric.” He’s still staring into his wine. “<em>Domeric.” </em>A white hand slides the cup away.</p><p>“Father.”</p><p>“I do not think this will help you,” he starts, “but I know some of what you are feeling.” The flowers overhead rustle in the drafts. “There was little affection between your mother and myself.” <em>Father, when did you get so old? When did your eyes get so tired? </em>“Even so I worried for her. Twice I left her heavy with child. Twice I returned and the babe was gone. Once I returned and she was gone too.” There’s a hand on his arm now. “I do not think my experience was much like yours, but I do know that it was very difficult.” Then, a surprise.</p><p>His father hugs him.</p><p>It must have been the first time in nearly twenty years. He doesn’t know what to say. But his father speaks before he can say anything. “Now. You have a luxury denied to the rest of us. Go and spend one last night with your wife.”</p><p>He doesn’t need to be told twice.</p><p>First a detour to his chambers. The words he needs to say. The gift he needs to give. The parchment. He reads it over again. Simple words, but he needs to say them perfectly. There can be no mistakes. Nights and nights and nights he spent not saying them. Waiting for her to say so first. He was such a fool to wait. <em>So much time I wasted. What a craven I am. </em>So what if she didn’t say so? He should have said so. It was true.</p><p>
  <em>I love you, Sansa. I have for moons and moons. You will make a wonderful mother. I know you will. I am honored to be your husband. I am grateful that you are my wife. You make me very happy. More than anyone else. I wish we had more time together. I wish I had not wasted the time we did have. I wish I had set aside our bad beginning straight away.</em>
</p><p>Next, the gift. A crown of blue winter roses. From the glass gardens. He cut them and Beth strung them together. “Sansa always wanted to be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Beth had told him. Before. <em>Sansa, you are my Queen of Love and Beauty. You will have your crown today.</em></p><p>A bark by the door, a brush on his legs. Two swishes of a tail. “Aye, Grey Wind. It’s time to go.”</p><p>Sansa has different chambers now. Closer to Maester Wolkan’s. No stairs.</p><p>“Jeyne. Beth. Maester Wolkan. Winterfell is yours,” he says. By the cast of their eyes they are sad to see him go. <em>I will miss them too. </em>“I promised Lady Catelyn I would be here. For Sansa. It seems I must ask you all to keep my promise for me.”</p><p>They all nod and say their <em>goodbye, my lord</em>s. Maester Wolkan gives him one last report. <em>Thank the gods, it’s a good one. </em></p><p>Grey Wind’s next, outside her door. “My friend,” he whispers as he kneels, wrapping his arms around the wolf’s great neck. <em>How could I have ever been scared of Grey Wind</em>? Grey Wind nuzzles him with his snout, licks him in the face. He presses his nose further into the wolf’s grey fur. <em>I don’t even care if you get all over me. </em>When their embrace is done Domeric pulls back. Grey Wind’s eyes are blue and warm. Kind. A friend. “It’s your turn to protect Sansa now,” he says. “Though I suppose you never stopped. Never leave her, Grey Wind.”</p><p>Grey Wind only stares and paws at the door.</p><p>“Domeric,” she says. “You’re here.” She’s already in bed, sitting back against the headboard, pillows stacked behind her. <em>The baby is too big. I can’t breathe when I’m on my back.</em> She doesn’t wear her hair in a plait at night anymore. She knows he likes it down.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“You’re leaving tomorrow.”</p><p>“Aye.”</p><p>She opens her mouth and closes it, and her eyes dart back and forth. He waits for her to say something.</p><p>They both wait.</p><p>“I have something for you,” he says. “Here.” He kisses her on the brow. “My Queen of Love and Beauty.”</p><p>“My champion.” She laughs, and it’s so lovely. The most beautiful sound in the world. <em>I want to keep hearing this sound, forever and ever and ever. </em>“You ride for me tomorrow,” she says. “I have something for you too.” She motions to the bedside table. Somethings there, wrapped in paper, and he starts to unwrap it.</p><p>“A favor,” he says.</p><p>“Yes,” she says. She ties it around his arm. When she thinks he isn’t looking he sees it in her face. The deep, unshakeable sadness. The loneliness. <em>I know that feeling too. </em></p><p>“Come sit with me,” she says.</p><p>“Of course.” He takes off his doublet and arranges himself behind her, his nose in her hair, his arms around her belly. Around their baby.</p><p>“You won’t undress more?”</p><p>“No,” he says. “These clothes. I’ll wear them tomorrow. I want them to smell like you.” More laughter.</p><p>They sit in silence for a while. She smiles the whole time. <em>What a craven I am, </em>he thinks. He can’t lose his face. <em>I want her last memories of me to be of a brave knight. A strong man. Her husband. </em></p><p>He looks at his doublet, on the floor. Velvet, not for war. The parchment in his pocket. He can’t say the words. Not now. <em>I’ll say them in the morning. We have time. </em></p><p>Besides, she’s falling asleep. She should hear them while she’s awake.</p><p>“Good night, my lady,” he says, kissing her temple, palming her belly. “Good night, little baby.”</p><p>“Good night, my lord.”</p><p>Bells. Bells mean morning. Not dawn light. Not today.</p><p>It wasn’t the best sleep of his life, but it wasn’t the worst. It was his last night with her. His Sansa. His back and his neck hurt from sitting against the headboard but there was no position he’d have rather slept in than with nose in her hair, his arms wrapped around her.</p><p><em>Gently, gently. </em>He couldn’t wake her. That wasn’t right. <em>I have to wake her. </em>As he disentangled himself the favor caught behind her back. Gently with that too. He slips into his boots and shrugs into his leathers. His belt, his sword. All the damn rest. Before he pulls on his gloves he kneels down and strokes her cheek.</p><p>So peaceful, she is. So beautiful. Still sleeping.</p><p>“Sansa,” he says. “Sansa. My lady. My lady love.” The crown of roses is still in her hair. The flowers still smell sweet. “Sansa.”</p><p>He tries her hands this time. He squeezes. “Wake up, my lady. It’s time for me to go.” Her eyes drift open, still bleary, still blinking.</p><p>“My lady.”</p><p>“My lord.” Her words are slurred, lines of spittle stretching between her lips. Ripe like cherries. “Domeric. You’re still here.” She’s still glowing. Red dawn in her cheeks, but no sunshine in her eyes.</p><p>“Aye, I’m still here. But I’m going now.”</p><p>She nods. She looks like a picture from his story book. The one he reads for comfort. The legends from the Age of Heroes. <em>We’ll read it to the baby, </em>they’d told each other. <em>Maybe – </em>but he cuts himself off. He wants to have this image forever. Her, Sansa, leaning back against the pillows, red hair like the sunset spread around her shoulders, blue roses crowning her like some dream princess. Skin white and glowing like the moon. <em>My featherbed is deep and soft – </em>not that one. <em>I love a maid as fair as spring, with flowers in her hair.</em></p><p>He has to say it. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t said it first.</p><p>“My lady.” He still has her hands. “I hope – I pray that we will see each other again. On the other side of this. That we will both win our wars. May the gods guide us to victory. The old and the new.” He has to take a hand away. For their baby. Her belly is still so warm. The baby kicks. It hears his voice. “Goodbye, little baby.” It wouldn’t do for her to see him crack. She has to remember him brave. He can see the tear stains on her shift when he bends to give his kiss. From her breathing he knows she’s drifting off again. “I love you.”</p><p>“Goodbye, my lady.”</p><p>“Goodbye, my lord,” she slurs. So peaceful. So sweet. Her eyes are blinking closed. He kisses her on the mouth.</p><p>It’s time to go.</p><p>“I love you, Sansa Stark.”</p><p>***</p><p>It is not good to be back in the saddle. Make camp. Break camp. Make camp again. The world was white. The world was grey. The world was black. Again and again and again.</p><p>
  <em>I miss her.</em>
</p><p>He wakes up coughing. Twisted and sweating. Too hot. A peek of moonlight stripes across the pink tent flaps. A dark shadow.</p><p>“I was dreaming,” he realizes. He closes his eyes. There’s wet on his face. Damp and panting. Fuzzy, like a pelt on a bed. A little bark.</p><p>His eyes fly open. His heart stops and his throat constricts.</p><p>“Grey Wind,” he whispers. “<em>No…” </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: None. This is wholesome. But it's SAD. I cried :'(</p><p>Why do I do this to myself.</p><p>Chapter 6 will be a Sansa chapter and it is dropping on Saturday. I need a break after this one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rebirth / Spring</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Sansa. My lady. Wake up. They’re here.”</p><p>The knocks on the door are sharp and even. Jeyne’s knocks. Sansa debars the door and moves back to the cradle. “Jeyne. Thank you. I am ready to receive them.”</p><p>Rickard falls back asleep when he’s secure against her chest, snug and peaceful in his sling. <em>Such a quiet boy, </em>Palla had said. Palla was a wet nurse now. <em> M’lady, we’ll have to watch that one. Won’t cry when he’s hungry, won’t cry when he’s wet. When he cries I don’t know why. We’ll just have to watch him and feed him when the bells ring.</em></p><p>Such a quiet boy, her Rickard. He is his father’s son.</p><p>She checks herself in the Myrish glass on the wall one last time. Her hair is neat, plaited up and away from her face, which is not so puffy anymore. Her eyes are not so red. <em>It’s not so bad, </em>she thinks. But perhaps it is. They ran out of special cream and now nothing could hide the dark circles ringing her eyes. She hasn’t seen them since before. <em>When I thought – </em>but she doesn’t want to think about that. <em>It never happened. </em>She hasn’t seen them since the capital, when she’d heard about Rickon. When she’d heard about Bran. When she’d heard about Robb.</p><p>“Sansa – ” More knocks from Jeyne. She opens the door. Her friend has dark circles under her eyes too, and worry lines besides. “Sansa – are you sure? You want to meet them in the solar? We could have it here, you could lie down, you shouldn’t be walking – ”</p><p>“Maester Wolkan says I ought to walk,” she says. “And I will not meet the King and the Lord Hand while lying abed. I will be fine, Jeyne. Thank you.”</p><p>The corridors are dark, darker than the open air. One torch for every three sconces – and only in the Great Keep. The only keep they’re still using. In a dusty draft Domeric’s dried flowers rustle overhead. <em>This castle has become a crypt. </em></p><p>Domeric took all the men with him, and with them, all the merriment. The women of Winterfell, of Winter Town – most have fled as well. It looks the same – all greys and whites and pinks and reds, flowers and bright new tapestries and Yi Tish vases – but it was the sound that gave it life.</p><p>
  <em>Mother, Arya. I wonder if you will recognize this castle. I wonder if you will recognize me. </em>
</p><p>She and Jeyne walk in silence, and at a corner, they part ways. “I will be in the hall,” Jeyne says. “I will send them to you, once I speak to them. Steward’s work.” <em>Ladies’ work, </em>she thinks. Since before she went into confinement, Jeyne has taken on most of her duties, because Domeric asked her to.</p><p>“Thank you, Jeyne.”</p><p>Just one guard outside the solar door. A green boy of two-and ten. <em>Eddard, </em>his name is. <em>After m’lord – the old lord, m’lady. </em>She doesn’t need to bar it.</p><p>“Rickard, look,” she says. The Myrish rugs swallow the echoes. Her quiet boy’s eyes are open.  “Rickard. Over there. That’s your father.”</p><p>The portrait is on the wall between the desk and the door. You see it when you’re sitting down, and when you’re walking in. <em>Us in our wedding garments. </em>He had her save them all. The gown, the moonstone net, even the blue winter roses. <em>They are very beautiful, my lady. I would preserve them if we can. Yes, my lord, if that is what you wish. </em>Their clothes were very beautiful, but their expressions were so ugly. <em>My lord’s face is so stern and stiff, and my smile is so fake. </em>The first day they sat for it was the day after their wedding, and she’d thought of no worse torture than sharing a couch with him for two straight hours. He didn’t show it on his face, but from the way he touched her she knew he was thinking the same.</p><p>They’d both been wrong. <em>You have married the kindest young man in Westeros, my lady, </em>Lord Redfort had told her, his words unwelcome. <em>I think you will make each other very happy.</em> Lord Redfort had been right.</p><p>
  <em>We should have both been smiling. It should have been a happy day. It was all my fault. </em>
</p><p>Rickard frowns. <em>Babes can feel it when you’re angry, </em>Palla said. She hugs him tight. “That’s your father, Rickard,” she says, and suddenly she can’t hate the portrait anymore. <em>It is still his face. </em>It might be the only place she can see Domeric ever again. <em>I will treat this portrait as a great treasure. </em></p><p>The whole solar is a great treasure. It all reminds her of him. Behind his desk, their banner, the direwolf and flayed man per pale. White and grey and pink and red. On a wall, a tapestry. Serwyn of the Mirror shield. <em>I made that one for him. </em>And overhead, his flowers.</p><p><em>It’s no longer Father’s solar, </em>she thinks. <em>Mother, Arya what would you say? He has made this castle his. This castle, and me.</em></p><p>“You shouldn’t be in here, Sansa,” Mother told her, that first day, after. “Spend the night with your husband. You are a woman wed, not a girl. You oughtn’t bed down with your sister and the wolves. Not tonight.”</p><p>“I don’t want to, Mother. I <em>hate</em> him.” The hairbrush caught in a tangle.</p><p>“<em>Sansa. </em>You sound like your sister.” Nymeria barked in displeasure. “This peace – your marriage is important. My daughter, your <em>duty </em>– ” It was always <em>duty </em>with Mother.</p><p>“My duty? Mother, he will not ask me. He made that very clear. I do not <em>want </em>him. He does not <em>want </em>me.”</p><p>“Sansa, he seemed quite taken with you.”</p><p>“He isn’t.” Mother was finished with her hair and made to cup her face. She had never seen so many lines around her mother’s eyes, her mouth.</p><p>“My daughter. You are still very young yet. By all accounts your marriage will last many years. That is a very long time to spend with someone who you hate. A long time to spend very unhappy. I have spoken to Lord Royce, Lord Redfort, your Aunt Lysa’s men – by all accounts Domeric Bolton has the finest reputation, the accident with the bastard boy aside. Sansa, gods willing, this marriage can make more than peace and children. If you are lucky, you could be as happy as your father and I were happy – ”</p><p>“My marriage is more kin to yours and Lord Tywin’s. Domeric Bolton is not like Father. A <em>Bolton</em> could never be like Father.”</p><p>Mother only sighed. She looked so <em>tired. </em>“I hope that is not so.”</p><p>Nestled between Grey Wind and Nymeria she and Arya spent the night talking. <em>All that time with my sister lost, thrown away fighting with her. I did not want to waste one moment. I’d thought I’d learned.</em></p><p>“I’m glad you didn’t fall for him because he’s a <em>handsome knight. </em>I’m glad you’ve changed, Sansa. For the better. Mother talks about duty, but what about family? Robb is family. Bran and Rickon are family. Even if they’re dead. And there is no <em>honor</em> in what they made you do. I saw you dancing with him, kissing him, and I was afraid – I was afraid that – that – you’d forgotten about Robb. That you’d <em>betrayed Robb. </em>Bran and Rickon. Our brothers.” Arya hugged her closer. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see. But Robb, he, he – he looked just like Bran. After he fell. But Bran woke up, and – and – and we could all see – Robb was never going to wake up…”</p><p>“Oh, Arya… I would <em>never </em>betray Robb. Or Bran, or Rickon.” Grey Wind nuzzled her closer. “I learned. With Joffrey. It means <em>nothing</em> that he’s a handsome knight. <em>He’s a Bolton. </em>That’s what matters.” She’d been lying through her teeth. <em>He was handsome and I wanted him, and I hated myself for it. His kisses made me burn and I hated him for it.</em></p><p>Arya smirked. “I hope you’re pregnant already. So you only have to lay with him once. Once you have your baby you can push him down the stairs like they pushed Robb. And they can’t take the North away from you once you have your baby.”</p><p>She told Arya what happened, and her sister grinned like a wolf. “Good. Never lay with him then. Grey Wind can make sure. Oh, you’ll <em>torture him! </em>It will be grand – one night you can say, <em>my lord, won’t you come with me</em>, and he’ll eat it all up, and <em>then</em> you can push him down the stairs. Then they’ll give you a husband who’s not a Bolton.”</p><p>“Don’t you think that would be too obvious?”</p><p><em>I was so stupid. </em>It had been easy to laugh when Arya was there, but as the weeks wore on all her laughter died. <em>I hurt him</em>, she’d realized. When he wasn’t looking she could see it. Beneath the placid, stoic cold and the courteous words, his stiff upper lip. There was sadness when he looked at her. Loneliness and anger too.</p><p><em>Arya has a vengeful heart but I do not. </em>When they were gone she’d wanted to say something, but he’d put on a cold face and pushed her away. <em>So stupid I was. </em>She’d known, when she’d found him praying. For Bran and Rickon and Robb and even Father. Whispers carried in Mother’s sept.</p><p>“I’d never seen someone quite so haunted,” Ser Rodrik had said, “as the Lord Protector when he saw your brother, my lady. So guilty. We<em> all</em> had to tell him it wasn’t his fault just so he would start eating again.” Then Ser Rodrik spat. “It was all Greyjoy’s doing. My lady, he tried his best. We <em>all </em>tried our best.”</p><p>“He’ll come to you eventually,” Jeyne said. “He <em>wants </em>you. It’s easy to see. You can talk to him then.”</p><p>But he never came. <em>He told me to come to him. He is a man of his word.</em> A man of his word who made Winterfell the castle she’d always wanted, and she’d never even had to ask. <em>Singers and dancing every night, and bright colors everywhere. Just to all and cruel to none, merciful and forgiving. The kindest man in Westeros. But he was cold to me. </em></p><p><em>He does not want me anymore, </em>she realized, one day. He’d been making eyes at a serving girl. He made eyes at all the serving girls. He brightened at their laughter and watched them as they walked. <em>He does not watch me anymore. </em>It made her choke to think about. <em>I did this to myself. </em>Mother had been right.</p><p>
  <em>Sansa. It frightens me to ask you this. Did you lie to me? About what happened to you? Why is there no child? My daughter, are you barren now? Arya has spurned all suitors. Nymeria drives them all away. Not even Winterfell can lure them. Sansa, there is talk here of giving the seat of the Starks to the Boltons outright. No other house could hold the North. My daughter…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mother. I must be honest with you. I have not lain with him at all. He shuns my bed and stares at the serving girls. I cannot know but I fear he is bedding each and every one. Mother, I do not know what to do. Even Beth and Ser Rodrik love him. But for Jeyne this does not feel like a Stark castle anymore… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sansa. I must be frank with you. You have placed yourself in a very perilous situation. The Boltons and the Ryswells are well loved in the North now. Our hold on Winterfell is not secure. Your sister might as well be ruined for how she conducts herself. I know you love your brother Jon but a bastard is a threat…</em>
</p><p>“Jeyne – Jeyne – <em>help me, </em>Jeyne – ” It had been so humiliating. She’d made Jeyne so sad.</p><p>“He won’t want a whore’s tricks, Sansa. Lords don’t like that in their wives.” Her friend rummaged around in the trousseau that had never been opened. “Just wear this and tell him the truth. His lordship is very understanding.”</p><p>Understanding and forgiving, and she’d only apologized about the worst of it.</p><p>Rickard stirs against her chest. “Yes, my love, I know. They’re coming soon. I can’t make myself sad.” She hugs him, her sweet baby. So quiet. She pulls out that precious thing she keeps in her sleeve and slips it back in. To give her courage. To face Lord Tywin and Joffrey.</p><p>“Your grace. Lord Hand. Lord Tully,” she says, when they enter. “This is the Lord of Winterfell. Lord Rickard. Pardon me for not curtseying, your grace, my lords. I am still recovering.” The meeting will be short. It’s just for courtesy. Jeyne has done all the important work.</p><p>Joffrey looks her up and down, smiling like a worm. “My lady,” he sneers. “Motherhood looks well on you. Margaery ran fat as a cow, but I see you only have the teats of one.”</p><p>“Yes, your grace.”</p><p>“Perhaps I’ll visit you later – ”</p><p>“Later, we will be going over the supplies for the march, your grace. And the reports from the Wall.” She nods at Lord Tywin in thanks, and Uncle Edmure scowls. “My lady, good evening.”</p><p>“Good evening, Lord Hand. Your grace.”</p><p>Uncle Edmure comes to her for a hug. “Hello, Rickard,” he says. “I’m your uncle Edmure. He’s beautiful, Sansa.” She thanks him and he moves to take his leave and let them in. Mother and Arya.</p><p>“<em>Sansa!” </em>Arya shouts, rushing forward, and Nymeria only stops bounding forward because Rickard starts crying. <em>It’s all right, my love. You’ll be all right. </em></p><p>“My daughter,” Mother says. “Give him to me.” She opens her arms and her eyes swim with tears. “Hello, Rickard. I’m your grandmother.”</p><p>Rickard stops crying.</p><p> “This is your brother Jason, Sansa.” The boy’s hair is red-gold and his eyes are as green as emeralds. A Lannister if she ever saw one. He’s already standing and is bundled up in reds and golds and the barest hints of blue. A southron child. “Jason, Sansa is your sister.” Jason is quiet too.</p><p>“Hello, Jason,” she says, and now she can’t hate him anymore. Not now that she feels how much her mother loves him. “You’ve been a very brave boy, coming North all this way. He looks like Robb,” she says.</p><p>“And<em> your </em>son looks like a Bolton,” Arya says. “What has he done to father’s solar?”</p><p>“Arya – ”</p><p>“Where’s Grey Wind?”</p><p>“With Domeric. I sent him away. Grey Wind wanted to fight for us too.”</p><p>Her sister is making <em>that face, </em>all scrunched up and scowling. <em>You’re stupid,</em> it says. “And what’s <em>that?” </em>The precious thing fell out of her sleeve and onto the floor. The parchment in Domeric’s doublet, from the last day. Arya’s scowl deepens as she reads. “I thought you said – ”</p><p>“Arya – ” But she’s gone, and her precious parchment is floating down like a feather, and there’s no point arguing.</p><p>Mother sighs. “She will come around. She came around to Jason.”</p><p>“I know, Mother.”</p><p>“You gave him a Stark name.”</p><p>“We did.” <em>The first son will have a Stark name, the second will have a Bolton name, and the rest will have what ever name that suits them. </em>That’s what they’d agreed. “I’m glad you came, Mother. I’m glad Lord Tywin let you bring him. Jason.”</p><p>Mother holds her tight. The four of them, packed together. “My dear, I would not dream of letting you stay here alone. None of my children. We’re here together until this ends.” <em>Until the world ends. </em></p><p>She nods, and now her throat hurts. She’d been doing such a good job. She can speak now that Arya’s gone. “Mother, I miss him.”</p><p>“I know, Sansa.”</p><p>“I worry and I hurt. I love him, Mother…”</p><p> “I know.”</p><p>***</p><p>“Was it like this last winter, Mother?”  They’re walking to the godswood, underneath the covered path between the wards. All in a line. Rickard in her arms, Mother and Jason, Arya, Nymeria. Jeyne and Beth. <em>Domeric put this up.</em></p><p>“No,” she says. “We saw the sun every day last winter. We did not need the bells to tell the time. It wasn’t this dark. It wasn’t this cold. This is different.”</p><p>The heart tree is near the hot springs, and it’s warm. The steam keeps the snow off the red leaves, but it won’t keep the snow off their knees. <em>Just a walk, we won’t stay long.</em> It was too cold.</p><p>She keeps a log to count the days. The moons. Otherwise you’d lose track. Every day was the same. Rise, the godswood, the sept. Sew. Update the store logs. Break your fast on the day’s ration. And feed the baby every other time the bells rang.</p><p>Every day was the same. The world was white. The world was grey. The world was black. Again and again and again.</p><p>“At least the castle is pretty,” Arya says. “More to look at than snow.”</p><p>“It was Domeric’s doing.”</p><p>“Aye,” Arya says. <em>She is coming around.</em></p><p>***</p><p>Rickard is walking when they think they see the sun, peeking above the weirwood leaves. A spot of white on grey. He points. He doesn’t talk. He’s a quiet boy. He is his father’s son.</p><p>“It’s warmer today,” Jeyne quips.</p><p>“I think it is,” Beth replies.</p><p><em>Mother</em>, a voice says.</p><p>“Was that you, Jason?” Mother’s voice is tight.</p><p>“No, Mother.” Jason sounds something like Tommen. He’s seen two name days. It’s good to look at Jason, handsome and golden, with a gaze so green. He reminds them all of the sun. And of spring.</p><p><em>Mother... </em>It comes from the weirwood tree, its leaves, its trunk.</p><p>“Bran?” Mother’s mittened hand flies to her mouth, and she steps forward, touching the god’s face like her own child’s. “<em>Bran?” </em></p><p>Sansa has a horrible thought, then. She’d forgotten what Bran sounded like.</p><p><em>Mother, I’m here. Don’t worry, Mother, I’m here. </em>Now Mother is sobbing, hugging the tree. They’re all sobbing, hugging each other.</p><p>
  <em>“Bran…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s dawn, Mother. We can sing again. </em>
</p><p>Rickard rubs his face into her cheek, as if to wipe away the tears. He’s getting heavier and harder to carry but she doesn’t care. She presses her face into his dark hair. She wants to hold him, and when she holds him, he hugs her tight, like his father did. Rickard is his father’s son.</p><p>***</p><p>Pink spring primroses bloom in full force, punching through the dwindling snow on that day, the day the sun shines high bright and cold and the air smells fresh and like new life. The glorious morning when the bells ring and the horns sound loud, when the boys on the walls give up a raucous shout.</p><p>They’d all been surprised by the primroses when they’d started to bud, to peek out over the white snow. They were everywhere. Along the paths, along the walls. And in the lichyard, around every grave marker.</p><p>“What’s this?” she said. She’d wanted to visit Lady that day, because the snow was thin enough. Lady, and Shaggydog. A circle of pink buds, each one’s roots kissing Lady’s bones.</p><p>“They’re primroses. The Lord Protector planted them.” It was Beth who answered.</p><p>“He did? When?” He’d done many things to make the castle beautiful. She hadn’t remembered this one.</p><p>“We planted them together. Before you all got arrived for the wedding. He said it would be a surprise for you come spring.” Beth shuffled her feet. “He wanted to see you look at them. He thought they would make you happy.”</p><p><em>They do</em>, she’d wanted to say, but she didn’t want Rickard to see her cry. So she just nodded. <em>My lord, they do. </em>Perhaps he’d never see her look at them. Perhaps he’d never see her do anything. They hadn’t heard from North of the Wall for over a year. The ravens stopped coming after Joffrey and Lord Tywin and Uncle Edmure left.</p><p>Every day she’d prayed for him. To the old gods and the new. <em>Bring my lord back to me. Bring back the father of my son. Warrior make him strong and swift, and Mother spare him from harm.</em></p><p>She’d tried asking Bran once, but Bran didn’t seem to ever know when he was talking. <em>Domeric Bolton prayed with me. He’s riding to Deepwood Motte tomorrow. </em>And Bran wasn’t always there.</p><p>But one day the bells ring and the horns blow and Arya shouts for her to get up on the walls. She nearly trips on her skirts because Rickard wants to rush upstairs too, and he is walking slow.</p><p>“Look. Sansa, <em>look!” </em></p><p>She looks to the North, and she sees, and it’s the most welcome sight in the world. “Look, Rickard.” A great host of men, thousands and thousands of them, battered tattered banners snapping in the wind in every color. Less than a day’s ride away.</p><p>“They’re back,” she gasps. <em>“They’re back!” </em>She doesn’t <em>know,</em> but she <em>feels, </em>and it’s something much more than hope. She turns to one of the boys on the walls. “The stores – send for Lady Jeyne – we must open the stores. We feast tonight.”</p><p>It’s a mad rush to dip into the larder but it’s worth it. <em>Anything, they can have anything. </em>There’s enough hands there, enough hands in the hall, pulling out the trestle tables, digging up the trenchers and the plates. Everything they’ve stored.</p><p>“Sansa, get <em>ready</em>,” Jeyne hisses. “They’ll be here soon. You’ll want to look - ”</p><p>“I know, Jeyne,” she says. “I know.”</p><p> Her heart hammers like a busy forge when they’re lined up in the courtyard. She squeezes Rickard’s hand and he squeezes back. Her breath catches in her throat. <em>What if, what if? What if he’s not there? Don’t think that way. Don’t think that way.</em></p><p>There’s no need to think that way, because there, at the head of the column, is a direwolf, and a tall red courser, and next to it, flapping pink. Their banner. White and grey and pink and red.</p><p>At her feet he dismounts, and they all kneel in a line.</p><p>“My lady,” he says, “rise, my lady.” She holds out a trembling hand as he takes a knee and when he kisses it, she burns. He has whiskers now, and they brush against her skin, and she’s not used to it, but that’s all right, because <em>it’s him it’s him it’s him. </em>His eyes are the same, ghostly pale and shining bright, and when she speaks they crinkle up around the edges. A smile.</p><p>“My lord,” she says. “Winterfell is yours.” There is no royal banner flying. Joffrey or Lord Tywin would have been there first.</p><p>“Who is this,” he says, still kneeling down.</p><p>“I am Rickard Bolton Stark,” her boy says. Their boy. “You are my father.”</p><p>“Yes, I am,” he says. “You are my son.” <em>Don’t go don’t go don’t go</em>, she wants to say, but she knows he has to move on. He squeezes their boy on the shoulder and moves to Mother. Grey Wind stays and licks her face.</p><p>“Lady Lannsiter,” he says. “Lord Lannister.”</p><p>The line of lords moves on, moves <em>in</em>, and in bits and pieces she can piece together who’s here and who’s not. Lord Tywin, gone. Joffrey, gone. Uncle Brynden, gone. Uncle Edmure, thankfully, still alive. Ser Harrold, gone. Prince Oberyn, gone. They’re calling her husband <em>Lord Bolton </em>now and she knows her goodfather is gone too.</p><p>“Many died when the Wall fell,” Jon says. “There is no more Night’s Watch.” It is good to see Jon again.</p><p>The Great Hall is full to bursting, bustling with sound, glowing with light. There’s laughter and splashing ale and clinking plates, and every sconce has a torch. It’s so strange to see it that way, to <em>hear</em> it that way, after so long in the dark and quiet.</p><p>It’s almost like their wedding feast, but this time, there’s no dancing. There aren’t enough ladies to go around. They share a trencher and a wine cup, because there aren’t enough of those to go around either. Half the men use the flasks they travel with. The direwolves huddle together in the corner, and they aren’t talking very much.</p><p>She looks over and catches his eye. It’s all right, they’ll talk soon. Rickard sits on his knee and tonight he is not quiet. Her boy has never spoken so much before as now when he’s with his father. She squeezes Jason’s hand. He’s green-eyed, jealous. <em>I don’t remember my father.</em> Mother hugs him tight. Over Arya and Jon’s shoulders she looks at Beth. Her father didn’t come back either. Beth’s smiles are bittersweet.</p><p>His hand is on her thigh, and Rickard is sleeping on his shoulder. He’s broader than he was, but thinner. Leaner.</p><p>“My lady,” he whispers. “Shall we retire?” She scans the hall, not even close to emptying. She’s so full of smiles that her voice fails, and she can only nod.</p><p>His eyes are full of wonder as he lays Rickard in his cradle. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he closes it and takes her hand. His grip is tight and warm and when he pulls them into the corridor, she knows she’ll follow wherever he leads.</p><p>“You’ve been sleeping here,” he says, when he bars the door. “My chambers.”</p><p>“I have,” she says. All her things are laid out on his dressing table. “They make me think of you.”</p><p>“You kept this,” he said. The crown is dry and wilted, but she keeps it on the nightstand.</p><p>“Of course I did,” she says. “And you kept this.” Her favor is still there, tattered and frayed, tied around his upper arm. <em>White and grey and pink and red. </em></p><p>“Of course I did,” he says, and he looks like he’s going to say more, but he stays silent. He opens his mouth and closes it, and then his face grows serious. His hands shake as he laces his fingers through hers, but his grip is still warm and firm.</p><p>“I love you, Sansa,” he starts. “I have for moons and moons and moons. Since before I left. You are a wonderful mother. I talked to our son, I know you are. I am honored to be your husband. I am grateful that you are my wife. You make me very happy. More than anyone else.” Now he’s pausing, and his eyes are searching, and he looks confused. <em>I know the words, </em>she wants to say. She hopes he can see it in her face.</p><p>His voice is shaking as he starts again. “I wish we had spent more time together. I wish I had not wasted the time we did have. I wish I had set aside our bad beginning straight away. Not a day went by that I did not think about you. I almost can’t believe that we’re together again.” By now he’s whispering, as if trying to keep his voice from cracking, but she keeps nodding at him, smiling, because he needs encouragement and <em>I love you I love you I love you.</em></p><p> “I love you, Sansa Stark.”</p><p>She takes her hands away and winds her arms around his neck, and she can’t stop smiling.</p><p>“And I love you, Domeric Bolton.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's still Saturday on the West Coast!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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